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Her gaze snaps to mine, recognition flickering through the fear. “Griffin,” she manages between gasps. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

“Yes, you can,” I tell her, keeping my voice calm even as my stomach churns with concern. “Focus on me.”

I sit on the edge of her bed, slowly and carefully, telegraphing each movement. “May I touch you?”

She nods jerkily, and I take her hand, placing it against my chest where she can feel the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.

“Breathe with me,” I instruct gently. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Feel my breathing and try to match it.”

Gradually, her breaths slow and deepen. The wild panic in her eyes recedes, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

“How did you know?” she asks when she can speak normally again, her voice rough.

“I felt it,” I admit. “Your fear.”

Understanding dawns in her eyes. “The bond.”

I nod, watching her carefully. “Yes.”

She pulls her hand from mine and wraps her arms around herself. “Erik is the one who told me.”

“I should have guessed.” Of course it was Erik. That explains why he looks so guilty these days.

“You should have told me,” she says hoarsely, hurt and accusation threading through her voice. “From the beginning. You had no right to keep something like that from me.”

“I know that now,” I acknowledge quietly. “I was trying to protect you.”

“From what? The truth?” She looks away, her profile sharp in the lamplight. “I had a right to know what was happening to me. Why I felt so drawn to you. Why I—” She breaks off, shaking her head.

“Why you what?” I press gently.

She meets my eyes again, her gaze direct despite the vulnerability in it.

“Why I can’t stop thinking about you. Why I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, even though most of the time we’ve spent together was with you as a wolf.

Why I—” She swallows hard. “Why I feel safe with you when I haven’t felt safe with anyone in years. ”

The raw honesty in her voice makes my chest ache.

“I should have told you,” I repeat. “I was wrong not to. But I didn’t want you to feel trapped. I wanted you to choose me, not feel forced into something because of a mystical connection you never asked for.”

“And instead, you tricked me into your bed,” she says bitterly.

I recoil as if struck. “No. Never. That night was your choice, Maya. The bond doesn’t compel desire; it recognizes it. What’s between us is real. It was real before either of us knew what it meant.”

She studies me, searching my face for truth. Whatever she finds there seems to settle something in her, because her shoulders relax slightly.

“I don’t know you,” she says finally. “Not really. A few months of shared captivity, a few days of freedom—that’s not enough to build a life on. And now I’m supposed to, what? Become your queen? Rule beside you? I’m human, Griffin. I don’t belong in your world.”

“You belong with me,” I say simply. “The rest is just details.”

A short, disbelieving laugh escapes her. “Just details? The fact that your entire kingdom is going to hate me? That I know nothing about being a queen? You think I haven’t heard the rumors about me, noticed the cold way the palace staff has begun to treat me?”

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?”

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

The palace hums with preparation, servants darting through corridors, courtiers whispering in corners. The full moon will rise in hours, and with it, my official reclamation of the throne.

Trapped in endless briefings and rituals, I haven’t seen Maya since dawn. But I can feel her presence in the palace, a steady warmth at the edge of my awareness.

I’ve just sent Maya a small surprise when I feel my skin tingling. Isla, the witch from the Northern Kingdom, steps into my office, her face pale and drawn. I get to my feet.

“I need to speak with you,” she says urgently. “Alone.”

Something in her tone makes the guards hesitate, looking to me for direction. I nod, dismissing them with a gesture.

“What is it?” I ask when we’re alone, the dread in her eyes setting off warning bells in my mind. “When did you get here?”

“I arrived with King Cedric and his mate. The prophecy,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve deciphered it.”

I straighten, suddenly alert. “Tell me.”

She glances around, as if afraid the walls themselves might be listening. “It’s worse than I feared, King Griffin.”

“How so?”

Her hands twist together, the only sign of nerves in her otherwise composed demeanor. “Death.”

My stomach clenches. “Whose death?”

Her eyes meet mine, filled with genuine sorrow. “Your fated mate’s. The prophecy foretells that you will be the cause of her death.”

The world seems to tilt beneath my feet. “That’s not possible.”

“I’ve checked it three times,” she insists. “Consulted the oldest texts. The meaning is clear. Your fated mate will die once you mark her, and you will be the one who takes her life.”

I shake my head, denial rising like a tide. “No. I refuse to accept that.”

“You asked me to interpret it,” she reminds me gently. “I have done so.”

“There must be another meaning,” I insist. “Another way.”

Her expression softens with pity. “The prophecies of the old bloodline are never wrong, King Griffin. They may be twisted, or misinterpreted, but never wrong.”

My heart sinks, something cold forming in my chest.

“I am sorry, King Griffin. I truly am.”

She heads out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and this grief that is permeating my bones.