"What happened to the duke?"
"He apologized. Profusely. And then asked for the scone recipe." Cadeon shifts, propping himself up to look at me. "That's what I forgot, during Elspeth's time. That the bond could be... joyful. That serving someone didn't have to mean being diminished. Mariana never made me feel lesser. She made me feel chosen."
"You are chosen." I trace the line of his jaw. "You're my choice, Cadeon. Every day."
"And you're mine." He catches my hand, presses a kiss to my palm. "Whatever happens at solstice, whatever the bond becomes, know that I chose you first. Before the magic forces any decisions. I'm choosing you right now."
"I know." I pull him back down, settling him against me. "I know."
Outside, snow falls softly past the window. Inside, the fire crackles low.
But here, in this bed, with this man who has finally remembered how to be happy, here, time could be any century.
Iris
The morning of the feast,I wake before dawn and immediately try to take over.
"The roast needs to go in by seven if we want it ready by?—"
"Six-thirty," Cadeon says without looking up from the checklist he's reviewing. "Already in the oven. Along with the root vegetables, which are seasoned exactly as you specified."
"The bread?—"
"Rising for its final proof. I started the dough at four."
"You've been up since four?"
"I don't require sleep." He makes a notation on his list. "You, however, do. Why are you awake?"
"I couldn't sleep."
He looks up then, his pale eyes assessing. "You're nervous."
"I'm hosting sixty people for a formal dinner. Of course I'm nervous."
"You're hosting sixty people for a formal dinner on the night of solstice, when our bond will either transform or dissolve." He sets down the list and crosses to me. "That is what you're nervous about."
I don't bother denying it. "Aren't you?"
"No."
The simplicity of his answer catches me off guard. "No? Just... no?"
"I've made my choice. The uncertainty isn't on my end." He cups my face in his hands, tilting it up to meet his gaze. "Tonight, I will choose you. I have no doubts about that."
"But what if?—"
"There are no 'what ifs' for me. Not anymore." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Now. Get dressed, and let me handle the preparations. Your only task today is to be present and enjoy the feast you've created."
"I can't just sit around while you do all the work."
"You can. You will." His tone brooks no argument. "You've spent weeks pouring magic into the food, the decorations, the very air of this house. The labor is done. Now you rest and let me manage the execution."
I want to argue. Every instinct in me wants to push back, to insist I can help, to maintain some semblance of control over this situation.
But I look at him standing there in the warm kitchen, sleeves rolled up, completely in command, and something in me loosens.
"Okay," I say quietly.
