she is made out of flowers

The entire evening had been a mistake.

One failure after the other. One wrong glance stacked on the next, following her like vultures throughout the night. Whispers behind her back that tracked her every move, always clinging to her, always taunting.

It had been a disaster, and the worst of it? Bucky didn’t seem to realize.

Not a single worry line appeared on his forehead, his brows never furrowed like they so often did, his eyes never turned into that dark and menacing stare he sometimes came home with after a particular rough day. Nothing. As if gossip didn’t touch or concern him. Well, it obviously did not, because he was James Buchanan Barnes, leader not only of New York City’s underworld but of the underworld of the entire East Coast. He didn’t concern himself with the gossip of the minor families. But she was fair game—and everyone made sure she knew.

Sometimes, YN asked herself how the hell she had ended up as the girlfriend of America’s most notorious mafia leader. She didn’t belong in this world—her family never had troubles with the law or ever even gained a speeding ticket—and yet, she couldn’t withstand the charm of one Bucky Barnes after quite literally running into him on her way home from work. He had insisted on buying her dinner because she had dropped her overly overpriced Whole Foods salad she had just gotten after working another night of grueling overtime at the law firm she had just transferred to. Usually, she wasn’t the type of woman who would agree to dinner with a literal stranger, but something of Bucky Barnes had compelled her to throw everything she knew out of the literal window. It turned out to be the most fun she had had in a while, she had to give him that after hours of flowing, easy conversation, quick banter, and lingering smiles and thrown glances.

The night had ended with his number in her phone—he hadn’t asked for hers because, in his opinion, the woman should have all the power over the matter of reaching out again or not, effectively ghosting the guy she didn’t feel comfortable with in the “worst” case—and from there, everything seemed to be history.

“You are so quiet and far away over there, love.” His smooth, soft words pulled YN right out of her thoughts, but she couldn’t bear to look over at him, sitting on the other side of the backseat of the expensive Mercedes Maybach. Usually, she would hold at least his hand, fingers laced, and his thumb would rub patterns onto her skin, only he knew the meaning of, but not tonight. Tonight, she felt like a peasant dressing up and playing masquerade in the glittering world of the filthy rich. When she didn’t answer, she heard the leather as Bucky slowly turned to her and felt his gaze watching her intently, as if she was a piece of one of the old masters he considered buying—and not to hang it in his brownstone, or townhouse on the Upper East Side, or the family home just outside the city. No, he would lock it away in some vault or another.

YN had never understood it and probably would never understand because she would never buy something this expensive in her lifetime, only to lock it underground.

Silence stretched between them, and not the companionable kind. Everything was different tonight, and it physically hurt her to think about what this could all mean. Not only for her, but for them. Perhaps he would wake one fine morning in the middle of the week and realize what a horrible match he had made with her and would just send her back into the world, fighting for herself again, finding someone of better rank and better breeding.

How she had learned to loathe that phrase ever since being his plus one for the first time.

“YNN,” he spoke again with soft urgency in his tone. Bucky knew her too well, she now realized. Blinking, her eyes watched the passing streetlights on their way home. “I’m just tired, Bucky. It was a long day.” A bullshit excuse because if she were so tired, she would have snuggled into his side the moment both of them had entered the car, falling asleep on his shoulder with his lips pressed to her hairline.

Bucky knew that, too, but didn’t press the matter. Not now, at least.

It changed when the Maybach stopped in front of the townhouse she had grown to love so dearly; it would hurt her to leave it behind. The view across Central Park on the uppermost floor and patio was breathtaking every moment of every day.

Opening the door without waiting for Bucky to round the car and open it for her, YN climbed onto the sidewalk, the noise of Manhattan surrounding her, and her heels carried her across the stone toward the entrance, passerby instinctively waiting to let the woman in the evening gown pass. “YNN. Love, wait.” He tried to be calm in public, she knew, because he wasn’t one of those people who fought openly on the streets unless absolutely necessary. But she didn’t wait; instead, she opened the door to the townhouse with the fingerprint scanner to her right, pushing the masterfully crafted iron door open and vanishing behind it, hearing Bucky huff in frustration as he closed it behind himself.

“Would you mind telling me what has gotten into you? Something clearly happened, and don’t try to sell me some sorry excuse, love.” He was angry—finally something they had in common tonight—and she huffed softly while kicking off those torturous heels she already had to wear every day when she headed to work. Even quiet nights at home on her rare nights without work had been taken from her. “Go and ask your dear friends to hear what exactly has gotten into me,” YN mumbled, pulling her phone out of the clutch she had probably strangled at some point during this evening. Notifications of work-related emails and some newsletter or another scrolled across the glass, and she wiped them all away, only to face her lock screen without obstacles.

A picture of Bucky and her at Santa Monica Pier, her sitting on the railing with Bucky’s sunglasses propped on her nose she had stolen from his only moments before Steve had taken the picture, grinning brightly and raising a hand to wave at Steve, Bucky’s arm protectively wrapped around her waist as he stood right next to her, looking at her with a smile so filled with love, it almost shocked her every time she saw it. It had been such a perfect day that not even the sunburn on her nose could ruin it.

One of his hands took hold of her arm and gently turned her to face him, a finger under YN’s chin made her powerless to look anywhere but into his eyes. They were so incredibly blue, she sometimes lost herself in them when she wasn’t careful enough. And now, they stared at her in confusion and something else. “What would they tell me, love? Hm? I would prefer to hear it from you.”

It was almost laughable how clueless he seemed to be if it wasn’t so sad. With a flip of her chin, she released herself from his hold and took a step back, away from him and his distracting closeness, because she wasn’t as headstrong if he was too close. “You know exactly what they would tell you, Bucky. It’s the same tune they have sung since the first time I showed up at one of their precious gatherings, intruding into their sacred halls, dripping and sparkling with gold no normal person would ever be able to afford. And that’s what I am: normal. Ordinary. Not of the respectable and acceptable breed to mingle with everyone.” YN took a steadying breath before she continued. “I am scrutinized whenever I dare to show my face right next to yours. Does anyone care that I was the best of my class at Yale? Or that I am one of the youngest partners the law firm has ever appointed, and that I do a hell of a job? No, of course not. Because that’s nothing they care for. All they care about is money, family, and connections. Things I cannot provide. Everything else is secondary at best.”

Bucky watched her ranting, eyes focused on her face, never letting it out of sight. And when she finished, he slowly cocked a dark brow ever so slightly. “I think you give too much on gossip, YNN,” he started to smile, making her irritated. A frustrated sound escaped her, and she slammed the phone on the sideboard lining the hallway opposite the grand staircase.

“You don’t get it. People like you don’t end up with people like me!”

And that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? She was no one in everyone’s eyes. Just a tiny light easily diminished if they just so much as pleased it. Just a lawyer with a fancy corner office and nothing else to her name. They never even heard of it before Bucky had tucked her into his side and turned her into something else, something seemingly important but not important or special at all, as soon as they had gathered firsthand evidence. Just a fluke. Nothing more. The older ladies with unmarried daughters or granddaughters of the right age whispered behind her back how Bucky would easily tire of her, and then their time would come, because everyone wanted a piece of the most powerful man they knew.

And that jewel had been stolen by a peasant thief.

Bucky’s soft and melodic chuckle forced YN to stare him into the ground, but his delight and love were too strong for her to budge under her gaze. He didn’t even flinch and instead pushed both his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored black slacks.

“The ring in my pocket begs to differ, my dear.”

She wanted to scream. “You still don’t get it, you moron! You—… The what?” Only after her little outburst did her mind process his words, forcing her to pause and blink. Had he actually said what her mind struggled to accept?

Bucky sighed softly and stepped up to her, closing the distance physically and emotionally. “You heard me right, dearest.” With that, his hands pulled from his pockets, and a wine-red velvet box appeared between his fingers. He didn’t open it, just let her take it in before her eyes jumped back up to his, staring without daring to breathe. “I couldn’t care less what everyone is talking behind our backs because I have learned something ever since meeting you and guilt-tripping you into a dinner date with a stranger.” That made YN laugh under her breath. “Everyone has their expectations of life and how they want to live it—my parents certainly had them for me, but above all, they wanted me to find real love. The kind of love you crave coming home to every day. The kind that ignites you and makes you want to become a better man. I have found that with you, YNN. And I do not doubt the fact that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. It’s as easy as that. And if you want that too, then I suggest you stop ruining my attempts of proposing properly to the most incredible woman I had ever the pleasure of running into, okay?”

Nodding with tears in her eyes, YN cupped his face with both her hands, coaxing him down to kiss his soft lips, and Bucky happily obliged after putting the ring box back into the pocket of his slacks. “I’m sorry if I overreacted,” she whispered against his skin and felt his strong arms wrapping around her lower back, being pulled into his strong body honed by hours of training. “Don’t apologize, my love. We just have to get you a better armor against the evil vipers in the pits of hell.” His smirk was almost wolfish, devilish even, kissing her again. “Perhaps wearing my name will help you, my dear,” followed in a whisper YN felt more than she heard before a laugh was ripped out of her when Bucky hoisted her into his arms, carrying her upstairs with laughable ease, and making sure she understood who she belonged to since the day they met.

“And who might you be?”

The stranger turned at the sound of her voice, something strangely tugging in his chest. She lifted a brow, hands pushed into her waist, and her skirts swished softly when she corrected her stance on the pristine marble floor. The sounds of the festivities behind him echoed through the hall, reminding him where he should reside, where he should mingle, and force a smile on his face as if he enjoyed being forced to attend this spring-colored nightmare when he would prefer to read or even spar with his brother and sister back home.

But no, his mother had forced him to come with them, forcing him to mingle and fight off the advances of every attending lady.

Well, except for this one, and he would certainly not mind mingling with her.

She was beautiful, even more so than the most beautiful High Fae he had ever come across, her features striking, and her eyes captured him in a way that rarely anyone ever achieved.

Eyes that now turned colder, mocking. “Are you unable to speak? Poor thing,” she cooed, and a small, snow-white bird with flame-kissed wings landed on her shoulder, whistling and humming as if the Fae would understand it. And apparently, she did. He watched her lean into the bird, gaze never leaving his very being, while nodding softly along, the cocked brow rising a few notches.

When the bird finished with its report—he had never seen a creature like it, and he was fascinated—the male cleared his throat, bowing deeply at his hips, a hand flaring out. “My name is Rhysand. Apologies if I intruded.” A soft chuckle followed his introduction, and he watched her intently as the sound of it raked along his spine like a lover’s touch. It was the most pleasant feeling, and he wished he would never forget it. “Well, well. Rhysand.” He swallowed hard at the sound of his name on her lips—it had never sounded better, the syllables flowing like a melody atop her voice. “You indeed turned from guest to intruder, and I do not take those missteps lightly. Might I suggest you may return to the gardens? Dinner should be served any moment now if you were looking for something to eat.”

A smile tucked at her lips, and the bird hopped across the expanse of her delicate shoulder wrapped in embroidered silk. Rhysand couldn’t tear his gaze away from her eyes, feeling trapped and ready to drown in them. But he bowed again, a hand pressed to his chest, apologies written across his face. “It was not my intention, my lady. I was merely looking for a place to hide from the eligible ladies attending. Perhaps you know how parents tend to try to force their children into presumed happiness.” He couldn’t help but smile at her soft giggle, watching her try to hide it behind a raised hand, the bird looking positively offended at her display of genuine emotion toward him, the male, the intruder.

She cocked her head slightly, reminding him of a delicate bird, probably because the creature on her shoulder moved the same way the moment she had moved, mimicking the High Fae. “I do know a thing or two about meddling mothers,” she admitted and threw a glance across his shoulder back into the gardens. “Speaking of them, I think our intentions were suspected and we have been found.”

A moment later, a voice called for the female. “YN, Lord Vanserra has been looking for you!” Rhysand blinked as he turned to let the High Fae pass, finally learning her name and realizing a crucial truth: She was no ordinary High Fae. She was the firstborn child of the High Lord of Spring, the eldest, the older sister to Tamlin. The one supposed to be a son to rule this court has she not been born a daughter because few courts strayed from the rule of agnatic primogeniture—the right of succession for the firstborn son. He had never seen her; he had only heard of her because her father would not allow her to attend court festivities outside of Spring, and even within her very own home, she was supposedly expected to stay in her rooms.

What a lucky day today was.

The female rolled her eyes at her mother’s words. “Which of the bunch, mother?” The High Fae pressed a hand to her chest at her daughter’s words. “Mind your tone, petal,” she warned before taking a calming breath and plastering a smile on her face. “Eris has been looking for you, sweet thing, and I expect you to dance with him at least once tonight. He is a striking and handsome match for a young lady—and especially for you.” The Lady of Spring turned and smiled at him as he bowed deeply. “My Lady,” he offered a greeting, and felt her hand pat his shoulder gently. “I am so happy to see you again, Rhysand. Please, excuse us. My daughter has been straying away far too long, haven’t you, petal? Come now. Come, come.”

Rhysand watched her as she was pulled away by her mother, a soft chuckle escaping him as she threw a helpless glance over her shoulder, mouthing “Help me” in his direction, dread settling on her features. He followed both females back outside, the setting sun making the gardens glow, and twinkling lights were lighted by the servants. He took his place at the sideline of the prepared dance floor, violet eyes never leaving YN’s form, tracking her every move, her every breath. He couldn’t explain it—the need to keep watch over her.

But there he was, standing on the grass, ladies flocking in his back, hoping to gain his attention, but he watched the firstborn daughter of Spring step up to Eris Vanserra, the firstborn son of Autumn, who had the reputation to be almost as horrible as his father. And yet, he looked almost smitten when the High Fae in her embroidered silk dress stepped up to him, curtseying for him while he bowed at his hips, gathering her delicate hand in his to press a charming kiss to it, eyes never leaving her face, watching her like a fox ready to attack. And Rhysand was not sure if he liked the prospect of it.

Quickly, he looked for his mother, and when he found her, he let his mental shields slide open, just a fraction. “Do you know if she is promised to Autumn?” Like a prized cow on market day, ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. He didn’t let those words slip. His mother watched across the gathered people, his father next to her, and one of her brows lifted in question, but quickly, her eyes jumped toward YN, who swallowed hard when her hand found its place in Eris’s hand.

The musicians started playing the first notes of the dance.

“Not that I have heard of anything, my love, and you know how her mother likes to tease with such revelations. But…”

This was all he needed to know to step forward and be bold, bolder than he already acted around the courts. It bordered on outrageousness and indecency what he was about to do—to steal a lady from another male’s arms in the middle of a dance, but he could not care less if he was honest with himself. Rhys did not know what had befallen him ever since being caught by her, and he could not spare the time to dissect the emotions flaring inside his chest, making his heart ache in a way it had never ached before, nor was he sure whether this all was merely fate. What he knew was that he did not like the sight of Eris Vanserra dancing with YN, so he put an end to it.

His presence was enough to make Autumn growl. “Leave, Night Court. We are busy,” he almost seethed and tried to twirl YN in another turn, but he smoothly stepped into the movement and claimed her hand in a few short, quick grasps. “She is. You are not.” With that, Rhysand spun her away, far away from a seething Eris, pulling her with him, spinning her with ease as if they had done this sort of thing for hundreds of years. Their steps were flawless, movements in harmony as if they knew one another.

And her eyes… Well, they had captured him completely yet again.

“He will not forget this,” she warned him with that soft voice, making another tingle run down his spine. He led her through another series of harmonic steps, her skirts swishing across the polished floor. “I hope so. Someone should have seen him to his place a long time ago. I am happy I had the pleasure of doing a good deed for Prythian.” A smirk tugged at his lips, making her roll her pretty eyes at him before a pretty, teasing smile graced her lips. “Well, Rhysand of the infamous Night Court. You have successfully stolen me away from the male my mother is up in arms about to marry me off to, because, as we know, a female’s worth is only determined by the match she is making in the intricate dance of marriage. What are you going to do now?” YN looked at him rather expectantly, a teasing glint settling in her gaze, and he decided that she must be Spring encompassed.

And that he would be a fool for allowing her to be married off to anyone else.

Humming, he spun them around in the throng of other dancing pairs, knowing that every attention was laid on them. “Well, let me think,” he began and dipped her softly, making her laugh with pure delight before pulling her back into his arms. “I might pose as another suitor, living things up a bit.” He chuckled when YN hit his shoulder playfully, but in warning. “I meant what I said, Rhys.” The slip of his nickname barely surprised him because hers rested on the tip of his tongue ever since gathering her in his arms. “He won’t forget what you did, and if my mother gets her way and they marry me off to him, he will make me remember the way I slighted him. And I am not ready to be some fragile male’s plaything—or anyone’s plaything for that matter. I have been hidden and sequestered away for far too long, and I have fought for a place in the light of day harder than other ladies with my standing.” Rhys watched her sigh, and he felt her pain, her troubles all the way to his bones, but the fire in her eyes was refreshing. “You must know that I am the disappointment of my father for not being born a son, despite him having an actual heir. But I do not want a life next to a male who does not treat females kindly, who doesn’t even consider females equal to males. So, tell me, Rhysand.”

Her hand moved off his shoulder, fingers tangling into the buttoned dark blue, almost black appearing waistcoat he had obliged to wear at his mother’s request, pulling him closer than deemed appropriate. His heart beat like a storm at her confidence, at the way she composed herself, the way she knew what she wanted from existence itself.

“What are you going to do now? Consider me curious.” Now it was his turn to pull her closer, stopping them in the middle of the dancers twirling around them to the softly playing music, watching her face, mapping her striking features, gathering the courage for what he was about to do.

A finger moved under her chin to nudge it up, making her focus back on his eyes, and spring clashed with night. “I will court you. I will show you what it means being considered worthy and a male’s equal. I will try everything in my power to make you happy, and if you do not want me at any given point, I will released you. I won’t force you, I won’t draft up a marriage contract the moment I leave this festivity, demanding my right or claim on you because I am nothing like Eris Vanserra. You are no object for me. You are a lady I easily respect, someone I am dying to learn about—every quirk, every thought, every trouble and fear. And if you decide that, yes, I could be the male you want to marry, then… Yes.” He grew quiet for a moment, searching her face for anything that would make him stop, and when he didn’t find anything, he showed a slow smile.

The smile was easily reciprocated. “The Mother above does act in strange and uncertain ways…,” YN whispered, her head slowly cocking to its side again. “My mother won’t be happy. My father will be furious.” Rhysand softly shrugged his broad shoulders. “What if I tell you that I do not care?” The female chuckled at that. “Then I suggest you might have a taste for reckless endeavours and near-death experiences,” she teased him, making him laugh softly under his breath. “Perhaps. Perhaps I merely found a female I do not intend to let go again if she doesn’t demand it of me.”

Without warning, Rhys watched her push herself onto her tiptoes, and his eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of her soft lips whispering against his skin when she kissed his cheek. They not only appeared to be as soft as the sweetest petals, they felt like them, too. “If the dream I have had ever since the last solstice has been any indication, prepare yourself for not only a courtship, Rhysand,” her lips whispered against his cheek, and shock settled in his body because—

—because he had the same dream and finally understood the meaning of it. The fog of his memories cleared slowly but steadily, and the longer he memorized YN’s face, the more the dream came into focus.

The bird as white as snow with the fire-kissed wings. The female sitting with her back to him in the House of Wind, the bird landing on her delicate shoulder. The slight cock of her head now so familiar because he had seen it numerous times tonight. And her slightly turned face when he stepped up behind her, hands resting on her upper arms, littered in intricate tattoos, and her smile so filled with love directed at him when he bent to kiss her softly, whispering a greeting at dawn.

His hands rested on her upper arms, now still bare and void of any masterfully drawn swirls and lines, and love did not fill her eyes yet, but a familiar warmth he would soon learn to crave and revel in while falling in love with the Lady of Spring—quickly and irrevocably.

Just as she would, too.

He had been pacing all month long.

He had grated everyone’s nerves, too.

Ever since Rhys had returned from Under the Mountain, Azriel had been restless, impatient, almost bordering on being rude on some occasions. They knew why. Everyone knew why the spymaster was barely consolable, why his eyes snapped toward the horizon every once in a while, why his attention drifted off during council meetings, family dinners, and sparring sessions. They knew why he threw himself into work more than he had already done in the past, why he barely stepped across the threshold of the rooms he occupied in the House of Winds, why he looked as if sleep evaded him at any given moment.

They all knew, and no one could do a single thing about it but to… wait.

Feyre watched the shadowsinger, too. She had found her place within this beautiful city, within the tight-knit group of friends and family—she herself found a family within—had even found love without being destroyed, and yet, worry still gnawed at her whenever her eyes landed on Azriel. She recognized the longing and fear written in his eyes for what they were, but did not understand the cause of it. No one would tell her because, as Rhys had spoken quietly one night in front of the fireplace, “It is his life and story to tell, Feyre darling.”

And she could accept that, not wanting to push anyone, and especially not the male himself, when he already hung by a mere thread.

But then, in one of the council meetings she now sat in on herself, Cassian let something slip, causing a reaction from the spymaster. “No one has heard of her so far. Mor?” The blonde shook her head with worry written on her forehead. “Not yet. Perhaps she went into hiding? Or she is…” Her voice softly trailed off, a careful glance thrown across the table at Azriel, whose face was a blank canvas except for his eyes, burning like embers. His hand, flipping through the pages of reports, was now balled into a fist, knuckles almost turning pale. “She is not dead,” he growled, a warning lingering in his voice.

Feyre watched on, watched the way his shoulders stiffened, how his breath hitched ever so slightly, before he ripped his gaze from Mor and the others, staring out the window toward the horizon, eyes growing distant as if he were searching for something within. With worry, she looked at Rhys sitting at the head of the table next to her, who himself watched his brother and best friend with slightly furrowed brows, contemplating, thinking, weighing.

“I will try to reach out to one of our…—” Azriel’s eyes snapped to the High Lord, silencing him immediately. “She is our only spy in the region; you know that as well as I do because she was already there before everything. And she has not answered.” Deafening silence settled over the council, and Feyre watched her mate swallow hard, color draining from his face, and now, she knew something was very much wrong.

Hours later, she sank into his open arms without hesitation, feeling them wrap around her tightly, and a sigh as deep as the ocean left Rhysand when he settled deeper into the couch. She looked up at him and softly touched his cheek, making him look away from the fire and down at her. “Tell me what worries you and everyone else so much, please.” She hated to be left out of it, reminding her of her time at the Spring Court—Rhys seemingly noticed it too, because another sigh left him before his fingers started to caress her hair.

“You know I have a sister.” She nodded slowly. “I’m still wondering when I’ll finally meet her, to be honest.” Rhys smiled softly, sadness etched into his features. “I wish I could tell you, darling. See, before everything happened, before Amarantha, she was a spy just like Azriel and many others. She was—is—one of our best. She has ties to Summer because she is friends with Tarquin, their new High Lord, and knows her way around the courts. But when Amarantha trapped us and I had to protect Velaris, she was on a mission in Autumn and locked out of the city after the protective barrier was reinforced.” Feyre slowly sat up. “And she has not returned,” she finished quietly, making him nod, fear swimming in his eyes. “No one knows where she is or what happened. Perhaps she is on her way already, or is waiting for something, maybe she has a task yet to fulfill. We don’t know—I don’t know. And that worries me.”

Shadows moved against the menacing castle as if they had turned sentient, crawling across the bone-colored stones, growing darker and deeper as soon as patrolling guards passed, torches flickering in the approaching dimness of nightfall. No one seemed to notice, no one paid attention, heeding it no mind.

A pair of brilliant eyes emerged from the shadows behind a towering war tent, glancing around the outermost pole of the structure and watching men in armor and uniforms pass along the many winding paths throughout the war camp. Boots stomping in mud, torches flickering in the gusts of wind, clouds slowly closing in for yet another rainfall, slightly obscuring the setting sun. She watched, counting silently in her mind, tracking faces and bodies, brows slightly furrowed underneath her black hood. When the clearing in front of the war tent was void of any Fae or being, she slid toward the flapping covers of its entrance, slipping inside it without being noticed.

Quietly, she went to the large table in the middle of it, leaving no trace of trespassing. Gloved fingers started to flip through the many notes and letters, eyes jumping across information upon information, memorizing most of it with a glance. She would need to take a parchment roll or two just to have proof, despite knowing her family would never question her—but this was bigger than just her court. So much bigger, it almost transported her back to yet another brewing war, forcing memories into the light of day she had tried to forget as best as she could.

The intruder shook her head, gloved fingers choosing the most important notes as if she would choose a book in the library—covered fingertips almost lazily moving across the many rolls, skillfully and carefully picking the chosen ones without disturbing the surrounding letters. Her trophies entered the hidden pocket in her long black coat, protecting them against the weather during her travels, and after scouring a chest to the right of the wooden table, she even pocketed a map of Hybern and Prythian, strategic points of interest, possible allies, and Hybern’s standing forces drawn on it with blood-red ink.

How fitting, she thought with a snarl hidden in the shadows of her hood and mask covering the lower half of her striking face.

She was just done folding the map to fit it in the hidden pocket alongside its treacherous companions when voices drew closer to the tent, making her still for a fraction of a second, head snapping up and eyes staring toward the entrance. The flaps of the tent were drawn back, allowing a general and his escort to enter, servants piling in behind them, carrying glasses and carafes on tablets, and no one noticed the missing documents nor the figure vanishing underneath the tent’s fabric walls. Not even a patrolling group heard running feet across the already damp ground as the storm started to howl, while a female body jumped off the deep-diving cliffs and a pair of mighty wings carried her on the stormy winds across the sea, guiding her home.

Her steps were quiet in the halls dusted in the gold of dawn when she arrived on one of the many balconies, her wings aching from the long travel, but she could not rest—not with the longing grown to immeasurable depths. She had followed the golden band guiding her home after so many decades of lost time, guilt eating at her.

But he would understand.

They all would because ever since stepping into her roles all these centuries ago, everyone knew she would never start a mission and abandon it halfway through.

With a soundless sigh, she let her wings draw back underneath her skin, allowing them to rest, her feet carrying her across the familiar stone floor and through familiar hallways, until voices echoed through them. Her lips tucked into a smile she rarely had reason to show ever since leaving her home, but she would do better now. Now, she finally would have reason again to laugh until her belly ached and tears threatened to spill. Now, the nights wouldn’t be so lonely and cold anymore.

“Tarquin has not seen her for over two decades—at least that’s what he is telling.”

Quiet as a shadow as she was, the female leaned against the open double door with crossed arms and crossed legs, watching the council debate. The familiar sight made her heart ache in the best possible way, and she could scold herself for not coming home sooner. But things had to be done, and they would profit from it. Perhaps it would be enough for a head start in the war to come.

“Well…,” she began in her soft voice, making everyone freeze before turning all at once with filled cups being the bearer of the surprise, some tipping and falling, “I hope he better tells the truth. If not, I would question his sanity.”

No one dared to move, as if seeing a ghost, with the exception of one male. Her gaze was immediately forced to watch him, to watch his tall form rise from his chair with so much urgency, the poor thing toppled over behind his strong thighs, wings rustling and flexing, long strides carrying him toward her in a matter of seconds. Without so much as a word, Azriel’s strong, familiar arms wrapped around her smaller body and swooped her up in his embrace, feet dangling several inches above the floor, before they crossed themselves over each ankle, bending her knees and arms wrapping around his neck to pull her closer against him without being a wet sack of grain just hanging off of him, face burrowing into his shoulder.

His smell enveloped her within heartbeats, making her head dizzy and her lungs take one greedy, deep breath at a time, almost moaning at how good it felt to be held close by him again. Her still gloved fingers buried themselves in the short dark hair at the nape of his neck where it had always slightly curled and still kept doing so, as if no time at all had passed. She felt his warm face pressed into the crook of her neck, just where it had always rested so perfectly, felt his lips on the sliver of skin peeking out from under her assassin’s attire, as he loved to call her get-up for missions. Azriel’s hands moved softly, adjusting their hold, until one arm was wrapped tighter around her waist, and his other hand moved up to her neck, holding her face closer to his shoulder and, subsequently, his neck.

“My love,” traveled along their bond, and finally hearing his voice within her mind again made the female almost cry. But she kept her composure—for now. She knew she would break down the moment they would finally be alone again when she begged him for forgiveness for staying away longer than necessary after Amarantha had been vanquished, for locking herself away from their bond. “Az,” she whispered against the skin of his neck, followed by a soft kiss pressed to it.

A throat was cleared behind them, but neither of them moved, still clinging to each other, still breathing each other in. Then, she felt Az’s muscles tighten when a hand found his back, softly patting him. “Azriel,” Rhysand spoke gently, but in warning, making the spymaster growl deep in his throat, but it moved him to put her down with aching slowness nonetheless. She didn’t mind, of course. She would prefer staying wrapped up in him for the next ten or so years, but she knew this wouldn’t be possible, not with the knowledge she held.

The moment she had both feet on the ground again, Azriel rounded her, pressing himself against her back, molding his chest against her, a hand possessively tightening its grasp around her right hipbone. She threw a glance over her shoulder, a brow slightly lifted, and couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his brooding features, displeasure clearly evident for everyone to see. She also knew that he wouldn’t have any of it for much longer, ready to throw her across his shoulder to carry her off.

Certainly not against her own wishes for the foreseeable future.

Rhys stepped closer, observing the hand resting on her hip and clearly looking unimpressed at Az looming above her shoulder. “Don’t be like that,” she warned him, making her brother stare down at her in mock offense. “Like what? I do not know what you could possibly mean by that.” Eye rolling, she was now the one looking unimpressed at him, humor concealed. “Don’t make a fuss about him because I can assure you we won’t be staying all that much longer if it goes my way.”

A soft chuckle was ripped right out of the High Lord, then before his hands both found her shoulders, squeezing them, and his face turned serious. “We were worried. I was worried,” he dared to admit his weakness when it came to her. She knew Rhysand was no one who admitted to having soft spots and weaknesses, especially not when it came to other courts, but that was why she cherished those moments even more. “I know, and I am sorry for not coming home sooner.” Her eyes drifted across her shoulder back to where Azriel kept his watch, trying not to force her all-consuming guilt across the bond and probably failing miserably because he already shook his head slowly, his hand at her hip, squeezing in reassurance.

“But I had to see it for myself,” the High Fae added, and Rhys watched her with interest. She smiled and beckoned him closer, kissing his cheek and disheveling his hair with a hand and a giggle, “I promise, I am alright. No bruises, no broken bones, everything where it should be.” It was a promise to him, Azriel, Cassian, and Mor. She knew Amren wouldn’t care if she had a dislocated shoulder for all she knew, but the other four? They would be devastated—and would hit her until she admitted being reckless and forcing her to spend the next decade merely at home, wrapped up in blankets and pillows.

Rhysand nodded and made her step up to the table while lacing her fingers with the quiet Azriel behind her, tugging him along. When she stood next to Mor, she pulled her friend into her side and smiled at the blonde, both kissing each other’s cheeks. “I am so glad to have you back home in one piece,” the other female whispered and gave her wrist a squeeze. “I know. Breakfast at the Sidra sometime next week?” The spy knew a certain spymaster would never let her leave their rooms for the entire rest of the week. Mor smiled, nodding, and then she turned and smiled at the female standing across from her she had heard so much about ever since finding herself in the Spring Court as a human. “Do you might want to come along? I would love to know how someone as capable as you has gotten herself tangled up with my buffoon of a brother.”

Immediately, she knew she had said the right thing because Feyre’s entire face morphed from insecure and almost scared into a wide, perhaps a bit shy smile. “I would very much like that,” she agreed with a chuckle while Rhys rolled his eyes at his sister’s antics. “You have been back for only a minute, and already you’re inciting unbecoming behavior.” Showing him her tongue, the High Lord sighed in defeat, mumbling about it while she let go of Azriel’s hand for only a moment, turning the male into something restless. His hand immediately searched for her body, anything to hold onto her, and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her into his side until she was tightly pressed against him.

She did not mind in the slightest. Quite the opposite—she reveled in it. A warning glance was thrown across the table toward Cassian, whose mouth was already opening to make a quip about it. “Do not make me warn you verbally, Cass.”Both hands rose, and she nodded, pulling out her prized possessions.

The second Azriel had gotten a better look at the map she just unfolded, he took a deep breath, his fingers flexing against her side, his entire body becoming rigid. A finger under her chin made her look up at him in his slightly widened eyes, cheeks paling under his sun-kissed skin. “Do not tell me you were where I think you were, love,” he whispered, pure terror etching into his face. One of her hands cupped his cheek within a blink of an eye, softly shaking her head. “It is not the way you think it is. They did not see me, did not catch me. I am hard to catch if you recall, especially if I do not want to be found. And I did not want to be found with my hands in their war-mongering correspondence.”

Turning back to the table, she flattened the map and unrolled the three letters she had decided to take with her. “Hybern plans a war and we may have an upper hand, at least at this point. I only took so much that they would not suspect anything amiss, and if they do, they perhaps might think the letters merely misplaced. I have more information, but I couldn’t take everything with me, so you will receive a written recollection as soon as I find the time for it, brother dearest. But these… these might help convince everyone else. And I will start with Tarquin myself if you do not mind, Rhys.”

Her High Lord stared unmoving at her, making her almost uncomfortable in his scrutiny, while Cassian lowly whistled and Mor swallowed hard. Azriel continued to be rigid beside her, watching only her.

“Remind me again to never be placed on your bad side, sister,” Rhys spoke, making her grin in delight. “Don’t try to find yourself there, and everything will be fine, Rhy.” The familiar name from their youth—because she had long struggled with the letter s and the sound of it—made him almost smile before nodding toward the door. “Go on. We will discuss this tomorrow if you could both arrange it. And don’t be too… loud.” Something resembling disgust crossed his face, and he had to physically shake himself, making her laugh in more delight before a squeal was ripped out of her throat when Azriel just… took her by her hips and hoisted her on his broad shoulder with astonishing ease, leaving the council room with purposeful strides, her bright laugh echoing off the familiar hallway walls.

Grey morning light kissed the vanishing darkness of night, few stars clinging to their places across the sky as she watched the change of colors from their bed, a soft smile dusting her lips. Being home felt good, rejuvenating in a way the female had stopped hoping for in order to suppress the longing growing inside her heart. Now, she almost felt foolish for not returning sooner, perhaps before she would have gone to Hybern, just for a day or two—not that Azriel would have allowed her to leave again so soon in those circumstances.

Quiet steps padded across the wooden floor and the plush carpet before the bed softly groaned under the Illyrian’s trained form, making the mattress dip slightly. A heartbeat later, she could feel his soft lips against her shoulder blade, his skilled fingers caressing the bare skin of her exposed side, following the curve of her hips and waist up to her shoulder. When he pressed his warm, bare chest against her unclothed back, his fingers cupped her chin and made her head turn in his direction, blindly searching for his lips, which he oh so happily offered up for her.

“I could hear you think across the room, sweetheart,” Azriel mumbled against the plumpness of her lips after so many hours of kissing and debauchery. “I did no such thing.” It was followed by a giggle when his arms enveloped her body anew, making her turn and pulling her flush against him, gazing at her face as if to memorize it yet again. “You admit having no thoughts whatsoever after what I did to you, love? Oh, you know how to stoke a male’s ego,” he chuckled, smile morphing into that rare, wide-spreading grin she loved so dearly after slapping his shoulder. She would spend every gemstone in the vaults to have that grin immortalized in a portrait. But Az would never allow her such things, not when it came to him, at least.

The female had stopped counting how many portraits there existed merely of her and merely for his enjoyment.

She obviously did not mind.

She might mock him for his obsession, but she would also melt at the feeling of the soul-deep love he held for her.

A hand cupped his strong jawline, a thumb started to caress the warm skin of his cheek, eyes staring into his. She felt his relaxed body relax a bit more, felt him melt into her without having to think about it. Not anymore. They were past that particular point ever since she had defended him against a group of Illyrian men, only for him to pull her behind him and shout at her for being so reckless after they went home. She could still hear Rhys’ deep chuckle when he had found them still arguing and shouting insults at one another—only for them to share their first kiss after being left to their own devices.

Their naked bodies pressed against each other, no leaf fitting between them. And then, she felt the tears gather, felt her breath hitch ever so softly, alerting Azriel, who was so in tune with her, it was impossible to hide anything from him.

“I am sorry,” she dared to whisper, forcing a sob down, not allowing it to escape. He kissed her right then and there, silencing her for a moment or two. “We have lost so much time,” the female continued, finally allowing her to consider the many lonely decades lying behind her. It almost broke her heart thinking about what Azriel might have thought when she didn’t return home. Had he doubted her? Himself? Had he thought she had abandoned him for someone else?

The possibility almost killed her.

Az made her look at him, foreheads almost touching, and his shadows gathered closer, one smoky tendril gently started to caress her hair while his fingers flexed against her back, holding her tight. “There was not a single minute I existed where I thought you wouldn’t have wanted me any longer, my darling. I never thought you abandoned me, never thought you found someone better. Perhaps there was a moment filled with fear when I stared across the city, wishing, beseeching you to appear at the horizon, and perhaps thought I lost you. That perhaps you had been caught, shutting me out in order to protect me, and that someone has killed you.” She watched him with wide, fearful, and teary eyes when he had to pause for a moment, staring unblinkingly at her, reminding himself that she was safe in his arms, still breathing. “I was not good company in those weeks,” he dared to mumble. “Cass had to lock me up for a day or two because I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave and find whoever had done you wrong. But then… Well, Mor got through to me, to put it mildly. And I knew you were out there, somewhere, hiding, waiting. Waiting to come home.”

She quickly nodded at that because she had wanted to come home so badly, it had physically hurt.

“We may have lost five decades, my love, but it is not the end of the world. Whatever is coming our way, we will survive that too, just as we have survived the last war. And when all is over, I want to fulfill your dream of a cottage at a river, little wings flapping around and tiny feet running us into the ground every day of our existence—and we will fall into bed at night, exhausted to the bone, but feeling a happiness few can claim to have ever experienced,” Azriel promised in soft words, making her realize something of utmost importance. “We indeed shared a dream.” The Illyrian showed her favorite grin, silver brimming his hazel eyes. “I think we did, and I hope for it to happen more often.” She giggled through tears, holding onto him for dear life before she peppered his cheeks with whispers of kisses and took him in, breathing him in. “I love you like the air we breathe, Azriel. Ever since stumbling into you and forcing you to carry my books like the spoiled little Fae I was, I knew I would grow to need you to be able to live. And I was right because a world without you is a cruel one,” the female dared to whisper, meaning every word.

If he were injured or worse in their fight against Hybern… The High Fae wasn’t sure what she would do to herself.

Azriel kissed the tip of her nose gently. “I think I remember that particular encounter a bit differently. I seem to recall how smitten I was and how much I egged you to let me carry them.” The same unchanged grin found its place on his face, making her realize yet another thing:

Azriel was the one the Mother above had created for her, and she would thank her for all eternity as she melted against his strong chest, where she had always found her peace.

“And who might you be?”

The stranger turned at the sound of her voice, something strangely tugging in his chest. She lifted a brow, hands pushed into her waist, and her skirts swished softly when she corrected her stance on the pristine marble floor. The sounds of the festivities behind him echoed through the hall, reminding him where he should reside, where he should mingle, and force a smile on his face as if he enjoyed being forced to attend this spring-colored nightmare when he would prefer to read or even spar with his brother and sister back home.

But no, his mother had forced him to come with them, forcing him to mingle and fight off the advances of every attending lady.

Well, except for this one, and he would certainly not mind mingling with her.

She was beautiful, even more so than the most beautiful High Fae he had ever come across, her features striking, and her eyes captured him in a way that rarely anyone ever achieved.

Eyes that now turned colder, mocking. “Are you unable to speak? Poor thing,” she cooed, and a small, snow-white bird with flame-kissed wings landed on her shoulder, whistling and humming as if the Fae would understand it. And apparently, she did. He watched her lean into the bird, gaze never leaving his very being, while nodding softly along, the cocked brow rising a few notches.

When the bird finished with its report—he had never seen a creature like it, and he was fascinated—the male cleared his throat, bowing deeply at his hips, a hand flaring out. “My name is Rhysand. Apologies if I intruded.” A soft chuckle followed his introduction, and he watched her intently as the sound of it raked along his spine like a lover’s touch. It was the most pleasant feeling, and he wished he would never forget it. “Well, well. Rhysand.” He swallowed hard at the sound of his name on her lips—it had never sounded better, the syllables flowing like a melody atop her voice. “You indeed turned from guest to intruder, and I do not take those missteps lightly. Might I suggest you may return to the gardens? Dinner should be served any moment now if you were looking for something to eat.”

A smile tucked at her lips, and the bird hopped across the expanse of her delicate shoulder wrapped in embroidered silk. Rhysand couldn’t tear his gaze away from her eyes, feeling trapped and ready to drown in them. But he bowed again, a hand pressed to his chest, apologies written across his face. “It was not my intention, my lady. I was merely looking for a place to hide from the eligible ladies attending. Perhaps you know how parents tend to try to force their children into presumed happiness.” He couldn’t help but smile at her soft giggle, watching her try to hide it behind a raised hand, the bird looking positively offended at her display of genuine emotion toward him, the male, the intruder.

She cocked her head slightly, reminding him of a delicate bird, probably because the creature on her shoulder moved the same way the moment she had moved, mimicking the High Fae. “I do know a thing or two about meddling mothers,” she admitted and threw a glance across his shoulder back into the gardens. “Speaking of them, I think our intentions were suspected and we have been found.”

A moment later, a voice called for the female. “YN, Lord Vanserra has been looking for you!” Rhysand blinked as he turned to let the High Fae pass, finally learning her name and realizing a crucial truth: She was no ordinary High Fae. She was the firstborn child of the High Lord of Spring, the eldest, the older sister to Tamlin. The one supposed to be a son to rule this court has she not been born a daughter because few courts strayed from the rule of agnatic primogeniture—the right of succession for the firstborn son. He had never seen her; he had only heard of her because her father would not allow her to attend court festivities outside of Spring, and even within her very own home, she was supposedly expected to stay in her rooms.

What a lucky day today was.

The female rolled her eyes at her mother’s words. “Which of the bunch, mother?” The High Fae pressed a hand to her chest at her daughter’s words. “Mind your tone, petal,” she warned before taking a calming breath and plastering a smile on her face. “Eris has been looking for you, sweet thing, and I expect you to dance with him at least once tonight. He is a striking and handsome match for a young lady—and especially for you.” The Lady of Spring turned and smiled at him as he bowed deeply. “My Lady,” he offered a greeting, and felt her hand pat his shoulder gently. “I am so happy to see you again, Rhysand. Please, excuse us. My daughter has been straying away far too long, haven’t you, petal? Come now. Come, come.”

Rhysand watched her as she was pulled away by her mother, a soft chuckle escaping him as she threw a helpless glance over her shoulder, mouthing “Help me” in his direction, dread settling on her features. He followed both females back outside, the setting sun making the gardens glow, and twinkling lights were lighted by the servants. He took his place at the sideline of the prepared dance floor, violet eyes never leaving YN’s form, tracking her every move, her every breath. He couldn’t explain it—the need to keep watch over her.

But there he was, standing on the grass, ladies flocking in his back, hoping to gain his attention, but he watched the firstborn daughter of Spring step up to Eris Vanserra, the firstborn son of Autumn, who had the reputation to be almost as horrible as his father. And yet, he looked almost smitten when the High Fae in her embroidered silk dress stepped up to him, curtseying for him while he bowed at his hips, gathering her delicate hand in his to press a charming kiss to it, eyes never leaving her face, watching her like a fox ready to attack. And Rhysand was not sure if he liked the prospect of it.

Quickly, he looked for his mother, and when he found her, he let his mental shields slide open, just a fraction. “Do you know if she is promised to Autumn?” Like a prized cow on market day, ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. He didn’t let those words slip. His mother watched across the gathered people, his father next to her, and one of her brows lifted in question, but quickly, her eyes jumped toward YN, who swallowed hard when her hand found its place in Eris’s hand.

The musicians started playing the first notes of the dance.

“Not that I have heard of anything, my love, and you know how her mother likes to tease with such revelations. But…”

This was all he needed to know to step forward and be bold, bolder than he already acted around the courts. It bordered on outrageousness and indecency what he was about to do—to steal a lady from another male’s arms in the middle of a dance, but he could not care less if he was honest with himself. Rhys did not know what had befallen him ever since being caught by her, and he could not spare the time to dissect the emotions flaring inside his chest, making his heart ache in a way it had never ached before, nor was he sure whether this all was merely fate. What he knew was that he did not like the sight of Eris Vanserra dancing with YN, so he put an end to it.

His presence was enough to make Autumn growl. “Leave, Night Court. We are busy,” he almost seethed and tried to twirl YN in another turn, but he smoothly stepped into the movement and claimed her hand in a few short, quick grasps. “She is. You are not.” With that, Rhysand spun her away, far away from a seething Eris, pulling her with him, spinning her with ease as if they had done this sort of thing for hundreds of years. Their steps were flawless, movements in harmony as if they knew one another.

And her eyes… Well, they had captured him completely yet again.

“He will not forget this,” she warned him with that soft voice, making another tingle run down his spine. He led her through another series of harmonic steps, her skirts swishing across the polished floor. “I hope so. Someone should have seen him to his place a long time ago. I am happy I had the pleasure of doing a good deed for Prythian.” A smirk tugged at his lips, making her roll her pretty eyes at him before a pretty, teasing smile graced her lips. “Well, Rhysand of the infamous Night Court. You have successfully stolen me away from the male my mother is up in arms about to marry me off to, because, as we know, a female’s worth is only determined by the match she is making in the intricate dance of marriage. What are you going to do now?” YN looked at him rather expectantly, a teasing glint settling in her gaze, and he decided that she must be Spring encompassed.

And that he would be a fool for allowing her to be married off to anyone else.

Humming, he spun them around in the throng of other dancing pairs, knowing that every attention was laid on them. “Well, let me think,” he began and dipped her softly, making her laugh with pure delight before pulling her back into his arms. “I might pose as another suitor, living things up a bit.” He chuckled when YN hit his shoulder playfully, but in warning. “I meant what I said, Rhys.” The slip of his nickname barely surprised him because hers rested on the tip of his tongue ever since gathering her in his arms. “He won’t forget what you did, and if my mother gets her way and they marry me off to him, he will make me remember the way I slighted him. And I am not ready to be some fragile male’s plaything—or anyone’s plaything for that matter. I have been hidden and sequestered away for far too long, and I have fought for a place in the light of day harder than other ladies with my standing.” Rhys watched her sigh, and he felt her pain, her troubles all the way to his bones, but the fire in her eyes was refreshing. “You must know that I am the disappointment of my father for not being born a son, despite him having an actual heir. But I do not want a life next to a male who does not treat females kindly, who doesn’t even consider females equal to males. So, tell me, Rhysand.”

Her hand moved off his shoulder, fingers tangling into the buttoned dark blue, almost black appearing waistcoat he had obliged to wear at his mother’s request, pulling him closer than deemed appropriate. His heart beat like a storm at her confidence, at the way she composed herself, the way she knew what she wanted from existence itself.

“What are you going to do now? Consider me curious.” Now it was his turn to pull her closer, stopping them in the middle of the dancers twirling around them to the softly playing music, watching her face, mapping her striking features, gathering the courage for what he was about to do.

A finger moved under her chin to nudge it up, making her focus back on his eyes, and spring clashed with night. “I will court you. I will show you what it means being considered worthy and a male’s equal. I will try everything in my power to make you happy, and if you do not want me at any given point, I will released you. I won’t force you, I won’t draft up a marriage contract the moment I leave this festivity, demanding my right or claim on you because I am nothing like Eris Vanserra. You are no object for me. You are a lady I easily respect, someone I am dying to learn about—every quirk, every thought, every trouble and fear. And if you decide that, yes, I could be the male you want to marry, then… Yes.” He grew quiet for a moment, searching her face for anything that would make him stop, and when he didn’t find anything, he showed a slow smile.

The smile was easily reciprocated. “The Mother above does act in strange and uncertain ways…,” YN whispered, her head slowly cocking to its side again. “My mother won’t be happy. My father will be furious.” Rhysand softly shrugged his broad shoulders. “What if I tell you that I do not care?” The female chuckled at that. “Then I suggest you might have a taste for reckless endeavours and near-death experiences,” she teased him, making him laugh softly under his breath. “Perhaps. Perhaps I merely found a female I do not intend to let go again if she doesn’t demand it of me.”

Without warning, Rhys watched her push herself onto her tiptoes, and his eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of her soft lips whispering against his skin when she kissed his cheek. They not only appeared to be as soft as the sweetest petals, they felt like them, too. “If the dream I have had ever since the last solstice has been any indication, prepare yourself for not only a courtship, Rhysand,” her lips whispered against his cheek, and shock settled in his body because—

—because he had the same dream and finally understood the meaning of it. The fog of his memories cleared slowly but steadily, and the longer he memorized YN’s face, the more the dream came into focus.

The bird as white as snow with the fire-kissed wings. The female sitting with her back to him in the House of Wind, the bird landing on her delicate shoulder. The slight cock of her head now so familiar because he had seen it numerous times tonight. And her slightly turned face when he stepped up behind her, hands resting on her upper arms, littered in intricate tattoos, and her smile so filled with love directed at him when he bent to kiss her softly, whispering a greeting at dawn.

His hands rested on her upper arms, now still bare and void of any masterfully drawn swirls and lines, and love did not fill her eyes yet, but a familiar warmth he would soon learn to crave and revel in while falling in love with the Lady of Spring—quickly and irrevocably.

Just as she would, too.