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Ice meets water, pressure building like a tide beneaththe skin. Riven groans softly into my mouth as I arch against him, his body pressing me down into the sheets, his magic wrapping around us like a storm kept barely at bay.

“I’ll never get enough of you,” he breathes between kisses. “Not in this life. Not in a thousand.”

My heart clenches, his words carving themselves into the deepest parts of me, right where my magic lives. Right wherehelives.

And just as it crests again—just as our bodies align in that perfect rhythm?—

A knock.

We freeze.

Riven growls low in his throat, a sound of pure, feral annoyance. “If that’s Thorne, I’m freezing him into solid crystal,” he says, his forehead dropping to mine.

I try not to laugh, but I fail. “He might deserve it.”

“Your Highnesses?” A voice calls from the corridor—one of Lysandra’s attendants, bright and formal. “The Queen awaits you in the throne room. Preparations for your departure are nearly complete.”

Riven pulls back, groaning in frustration as frost creeps across the sheets. “We’ll be out shortly,” he calls, his voice controlled despite the coiled tension pulsing through our bond.

“Very well, Your Highness,” the attendant replies. “I’llinform Her Majesty that you’ll be joining her within the hour.”

Riven flops back onto the pillows with an exaggerated sigh. “Time moves far too quickly when you’re thoroughly convincing your wife that you’re still alive,” he says, his smirk curling as he stretches with intentional slowness, showcasing every unfairly perfect inch of himself like a weapon he knows he’s mastered.

Then, all lean muscle and devastating grace, he rises and crosses to the windowsill where the Stillpoint Compass rests.

“It’s recharged,” he says, satisfaction evident in his voice as he lifts the artifact, its dial glowing with a soft, pulsing light. Something about it makes his features look sharper, deadlier, and more impossibly beautiful. “The full moon did its work.”

I slide out of bed and join him at the window, looking at the compass but not touching it.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, quieter now. “Ready to leave for our mission?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be to walk into a mythical volcano with my devastatingly handsome husband,” I reply, letting my gaze shamelessly drink him in. “Although I can think of at least three better ways we could be spending this already incredible morning.”

“Only three?” Riven raises an eyebrow, frost patterns swirling around his fingertips as they trace my collarbone. “I counted at least seven before we were interrupted.”

“Maybe you can explain seven more to me during the journey,” I suggest, fingers sliding down the smooth lines of his chest.

“In excruciating detail,” he promises, his silver eyes darkening. “Complete with practical demonstrations in our carriage.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

We stay there like that for a few seconds. Then, somehow, we pull away from each other, and as I dress in my travel clothes, his fingers are cool against my skin as he helps me with the fastenings, his lips pressing against the nape of my neck in a way that makes me seriously consider being very, very late to the Queen’s audience.

“The sooner we save the world, the sooner we can get back to more important matters,” he says, pulling me against him one last time, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that’s equal parts promise and frustration.

When we part, I’m breathless, my water magic swirling in agitated patterns around us both. “That,” I say, pressing my palm against his chest, “is excellent motivation.”

He laughs, the sound melting through me like sunlight on snow. Then he steps back—just enough to offer me his arm.

“Ready, Starlight?” he asks, and my heart stutters, a smile blooming across my face.

That’s the second time. And this time, he says it like it’s the only name I’ve ever had.

“Always,” I reply, and I slip my hand through his arm, magic pulsing beneath my fingertips as we slowly—reluctantly—make our way out of our quarters and toward the throne room.

RIVEN

The throne roomof the Summer Court is too bright. Too warm. The air is thick with an oppressive sweetness that clings to the back of my throat like honey turned to rot.