My pulse stumbles. I ignore it.
“I am not your princess,” I say quickly.
His smile deepens slightly, slow and deliberate, as though my protest amuses him far more than it should.
“Titles are flexible,” he says lightly.
His gaze drifts to the center of my chest, where the bond pulses warm beneath my ribs.
“Ownership is not.”
This sends a strange, tightening heat through me. I cross my arms, more to steady myself than to challenge him. “I do not belong to you.”
Since he stepped into the cottage, the amusement in his expression fades. It’s not anger. It’s certain.
“You do,” he says quietly.
My breath catches. The fire crackles in the hearth between us, throwing gold light across the dark planes of his face.
“You may not understand it yet,” he continues, his voice calm and immovable, “but what formed between us in that alley was not an accident.”
I shake my head instinctively. “You said it was a bond.”
“It is.”
The warmth beneath my ribs flares again, answering him.
“But that bond has a name.”
The room suddenly feels too small. I hold his gaze, even though some instinct deep inside me whispers that I might not like what he says next. His eyes burn brighter in the firelight.
“You are my mate.”
His words land like thunder in the quiet cottage. And suddenly I am not sure which is more terrifying. The demon standing in my home, or the possibility that he might be right.
6
THREXIAN
Ileave her alone with the truth. The moment the word leaves my mouth,mate, the bond surges between us with recognition. Her shock ripples through the tether like lightning striking iron, sharp and bright and impossible to ignore.
I remain only long enough to watch the realization begin to take shape behind her eyes. Then I withdraw. Not because I wish to leave. Because if I remain, I will start explaining things she is not yet ready to hear.
The bond hums steadily as I move through shadow outside her cottage, its presence now unmistakable. She does not sleep much that night. Her thoughts spiral endlessly, drifting between disbelief and reluctant curiosity.
Mate.
The word echoes through her mind. She does not reject it outright. That, perhaps, surprises me more than anything.
Dawn arrives slowly over the marsh, pale mist rolling low across the reeds as Briarthorn wakes to another day filled with quiet suspicion. The village moves carefully this morning, conversations hushed and watchful. Fires burned yesterday. People remember such things.
Elowen leaves her cottage shortly after sunrise. I am already nearby. The bond makes distance irrelevant. I feel the moment she steps onto the path, the subtle shift in her breathing as she draws the cool morning air into her lungs. Determination steadies her thoughts, though confusion still lingers beneath it.
She has decided something. She will pretend the world remains ordinary. It is a fragile plan. I find it humorous, but understandable.
The village market sits at the center of Briarthorn, a loose gathering of wooden stalls clustered around the well. The smell of fresh bread mingles with damp earth and livestock as merchants arrange their wares for the day.
Conversation quiets when she enters the square. I remain within the shifting edges of shadow, invisible to mortal sight yet close enough to observe every movement. Elowen notices the silence immediately. Her spine straightens slightly, though she keeps her gaze forward as she approaches the herb stall.
