But she doesn't respond. She never does. Just lies there, perfect and still and mine.
I fuck her five times before I can make myself leave again. Rough and desperate, my wings spreading wide for balance as I pound into her, chasing the connection I can only find when I'm buried inside her body, biting her every time I come. That’s been happening more often now as well. My body feels compelled to taste her. All of her. It worries me.
When I'm done, when I've finally had my fill, I carry her to the bath, wash her carefully, dress her in fresh silk. Lay her gently back in her bed, kiss her head softly, tenderly, and whisper in her ear that I love her. That I will return to her as soon as I can.
Then back to the study.
Two weeks. It's been two full weeks of searching, and I'm starting to lose hope. Starting to think that maybe there is something wrong, and I'll never be able to correct it.
The thought makes my chest ache. Makes my wings droop.
I'm reaching for another book, one I've already looked through twice, when I see it. A slim volume tucked behind the others, so old that the leather is cracking. I don't remember acquiring it. Don't remember ever seeing it before.
My claws are gentle as I pull it free. The pages are brittle, yellowed with age. The language is ancient, but I can read it. Barely.
And there, halfway through, I find it.
The book resists me.
That, more than the words, is what unsettles me first.
The cover is scaled hide. Old, older than the castle, older than the thorns choking the courtyard. The candlelight flickers. Shadows crawl across the stone walls. I tell myself this is a precaution. Due diligence. The curse has always required maintenance. The escalation merely means the magic is…aging.
But the lie tastes thin.
I flip past the familiar incantations. The sleeping lattice, the preservation sigils, the blood-bound safeguards. All spells I know by heart. All spells that should still be working.
They are not.
My claw pauses at a page I have never needed before.
Not a spell.
Acommentary.
Written in a different hand. Thicker strokes. Dragged ink, as if the quill hesitated. As if the writer feared the words even as they set them down.
“This binding presumes the absence of fate.”
My breath stills.
I read it again.
Presumes the absence of fate.
My tail tightens unconsciously around the leg of the table as my wings unfurl slightly in agitation.
The text continues, indifferent to my unease.
“The sleeping curse remains stable only when no true mate-claim has occurred.”
True mate-claim.
The candle flares as I read the words aloud. I lean closer, scales creaking as my weight shifts.
“No,” I murmur. The word leaves me without command. “I never—”
I stop abruptly.
