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I nod. “And you on me. It’s mutual.”

“And if we never complete the bond?”

“Then it remains as it is now. A recognition. A pull between us. Nothing more.”

She considers this, twirling another forkful of pasta. “So, we don’t have to—”

“No,” I assure her. “Not until you’re ready. Not unless you choose it. I give you my word.”

The tension in her shoulders eases further at my promise. We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the unpretentious food somehow tasting better than any palace feast I’ve attended since my return.

“It’s good,” she says, nodding toward the pasta. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

“Thank you.”

She sets her fork down, studying me with those clear eyes. “I’m still angry that you didn’t tell me.”

“I understand.”

“And I’m not ready to be your queen, or wear your mark, or whatever else comes with being a fated mate.”

“I understand that, too.”

Her mouth quirks slightly. “But I’m not walking away, either.”

Relief floods through me, so intense that I have to set my own fork down to hide the tremor in my hand. “No?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m...curious. About this pull between us. About you.” She reaches across the table, hesitantly resting her fingertips against the back of my hand. “I want to see where this goes.”

It’s more than I dared hope for. “So do I.”

“But I need time,” she insists. “To get to know you. To figure out if I—if what I feel is real or just this mystical bond thing.”

“Time,” I agree. “And space, if you need it.”

She considers this, then shakes her head. “Not space. Not right now. I sleep better when you’re near. The nightmares aren’t as bad.”

“Then, I’ll be there,” I promise. “Whenever you need me.”

Her smile, small but genuine, is like the first rays of dawn breaking through a long night. “I think I’d like that.”

We finish our meal quietly, the air between us lighter than it’s been since she learned the truth. When we walk back to her cottage, her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with a sureness that makes my heart swell.

Under the stars, we spread her blanket in the garden as we’ve done so many other nights. But this time, as we settle beside each other, Maya turns toward me, her face half in shadow.

“Tell me something else about you,” she murmurs. “Something I don’t know yet.”

And I do, sharing stories of my childhood, of pranks played with Erik, of lessons learned and mistakes made. She listens, occasionally asking questions, sometimes sharing her own memories in return. We talk until her voice grows heavy with sleep, her head gradually coming to rest against my shoulder.

Just before she drifts off, she mumbles, “I’ll be there. At the ceremony.”

I press a light kiss on her forehead. “Thank you.”

She sighs, settling closer. “Just don’t expect me to curtsy. I’m terrible at it.”

Her breathing deepens into sleep, but I remain awake, watching the stars wheel overhead, my heart lighter than it has been in years.

The nightof the ceremony arrives too quickly and not soon enough. A few hours are left before it will start.