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Fury burns in me at her last words. I am going to find out who is mistreating her.

“I don’t know you, and you don’t know me,” she bursts out, her voice edging on panic. I can hear her heart fluttering again, that same rhythm as before.

“Come with me,” I say suddenly, standing and offering her my hand.

She swallows. “Where?”

“Just come. Do you trust me?”

She hesitates, then places her hand in mine, fingers cool against my palm. “Not really.”

My lips curve. I pick her up and carry her in my arms out of the cottage, up to the palace, and into the kitchens. They’re silent at this hour, the gleaming surfaces reflecting the moonlight that spills through the windows.

Maya looks around curiously. “What are we doing here? I told you once before, I don’t taste good, so if you’re planning on eating me…”

I let out a strangled laugh at her joke and place her on the counter, my hands on either side of her, my voice low. “When I eat you, my little mate, my head will be between your legs, and you will be begging for it.”

The smell of her arousal floods the room, and I close my eyes, struggling to control myself. When I open them, her face is flushed, and I pull away from her, straightening up.

“This was my mother’s kitchen,” I explain, moving to light a few lamps. “She was a chef before she met my father. She never gave it up entirely, even after becoming queen. She would bring us here—Erik and me—and teach us how to cook.”

Understanding softens her expression. “This is where you learned.”

I nod, finding comfort in the familiar space as I gather ingredients from the well-stocked pantry. “It’s where I felt most like myself. Not a prince, not an heir. Just a boy learning to make pasta with his mother.”

She hops down and watches me work, leaning against the counter. “Tell me about her.”

And so, as I mix flour and eggs for fresh pasta, I tell Maya about my mother—her laughter, her stubbornness, her refusal to conform to traditional queenly expectations. I tell her about my father’s bemused adoration, Erik’s restlessness, my own quiet determination to live up to my responsibilities.

As I talk, I work the dough, my hands remembering the motions even after all these years. Maya steps closer, drawn by the simple domestic ritual, and I hand her a portion of dough.

“Like this.” I demonstrate, showing her how to roll it thin. “Not too much pressure, but firm enough to flatten it evenly.”

We work side by side, the humble task creating a bridge between us that heavy conversation couldn’t. By the time we’re cutting the pasta into ribbons, Maya’s shoulders have fully relaxed, her movements easy and natural beside mine.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she says suddenly, breaking a comfortable silence. “I want you to know that.”

I look up from the sauce I’m stirring. “I’m glad.”

“But I am afraid of this.” She gestures vaguely between us. “Of what it means. What it demands of me.”

I consider her words as I plate the pasta, setting it on the small table in the corner of the kitchen. We sit across from each other, the simple meal steaming between us.

“The bond isn’t a cage,” I tell her. “It’s a recognition. A possibility. It doesn’t demand anything but acknowledgment.”

She twirls pasta onto her fork, the motion automatic. “So, if I walked away right now? If I left the palace, left this world entirely, and went back to my human life?”

The thought sends physical pain through my chest, but I answer honestly. “I would let you go.”

“Really?” Skepticism colors her voice.

I meet her gaze steadily. “I wouldn’t be happy about it. It would hurt. Physically as well as emotionally. But I would respect your choice.”

She takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “And the mating? The ceremony? What does that involve, exactly?”

“There’s a mark,” I explain, touching the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. “Here. It’s permanent. A visible sign of the bond. It completes the connection between two mates.”

“And you would put one on me?”