Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~13 min read
They stayed by the waterfall as the sun began its descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and amber. Freya’s hand was still in Lysander’s, their fingers loosely intertwined—a small connection that felt monumental given where they’d started.
Through the bond, she could feel his contentment. Not the desperate, consuming need she’d sensed before, but something quieter. Peaceful. Like this moment was enough for him.
It made her brave.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, watching the light dance on the water.
“Anything.”
“What was your life like? Before you found me.” She looked at him. “One hundred and twenty-seven years is a long time. What did you do with all that time?”
Lysander was quiet for a moment, considering. “I trained. Studied. Helped my parents rule. Traveled to other dragon courts, hoping to find my mate there.” His voice grew distant. “I read thousands of books, built my hoard, learned languages that are dead now. I existed, Freya. But I didn’t really live.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was.” His thumb traced circles on her hand—unconscious, soothing. “Dragons are social creatures, but there’s a difference between being around others and truly connecting with someone. I had my family, my friends. But I was always aware that something was missing. Someone was missing.”
“Did you ever think you’d find me?”
“I hoped. For the first century, I was certain—my mate was out there, we just hadn’t crossed paths yet. But as the years passed and I kept not finding you…” He trailed off. “I started to wonder if maybe the magic had made a mistake with me. If maybe I was one of the unlucky dragons who’d never find their fated match.”
Freya’s chest ached at the resignation in his voice. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“It was reality. Or so I thought.” He looked at her, silver eyes intense. “Then I scented you across a crowded ballroom, and suddenly all those years of loneliness made sense. They were just the prelude. The waiting before the real story began.”
“That’s very romantic for someone who brought me a dead sheep.”
He laughed—genuine and warm. “I’m better at grand declarations than practical courtship, apparently.”
They lapsed into comfortable silence again, but Freya’s thoughts churned. She’d been so focused on her own situation—her forced marriage, her lack of choice—that she hadn’t really considered what his life had been like. The centuries of waiting. The loneliness. The slowly dying hope.
“What about you?” Lysander asked. “What was your life like before?”
The question she’d been dreading. Freya pulled her hand from his, wrapping her arms around herself. “Suffocating.”
“Tell me.”
She took a breath, choosing her words carefully. “I was born a pawn. That’s what daughters of minor nobility are—useful pieces for family advancement. From the moment I could understand language, I was being prepared for marriage. How to walk, how to talk, how to be pleasing to whatever lord my father eventually sold me to.”
Through the bond, she felt Lysander’s anger stirring.
“I wasn’t allowed to have opinions,” she continued. “Wasn’t allowed to pursue interests that didn’t make me more marriageable. I loved books, but that was only acceptable because it made me seem educated. I wanted to learn swordplay once—my father laughed for an hour.” Her voice grew bitter. “Everything I was, everything I wanted to be, it didn’t matter. I was just… inventory. Waiting to be traded for the right price.”
“Freya—”
“And then Father gambled away our fortune. Suddenly I wasn’t even valuable inventory—I was a last resort. A way to save the family from complete ruin.” She looked at the waterfall, unable to meet his eyes. “Viktor was cruel. I knew it from the first time I met him. He looked at me like I was something to break. Something to own and use and discard when he got bored.”
Lysander’s growl rumbled through the air—low and dangerous. “He would have hurt you.”
“I know.” The words came out smaller than she intended. “I knew what I was walking into at that altar. Knew that marrying him meant giving up any pretense of autonomy. That he’d hurt me in ways that would never show as bruises.” She took a shaky breath. “I was praying for escape. Any escape. Even death seemed preferable to decades of being his possession.”
“Don’t say that.” Lysander moved closer, his warmth at her back. “Don’t even think it.”
“Why not? It’s true.” She turned to face him. “I was standing at that altar, going through the motions, and all I could think was ‘please, someone save me from this.’ I didn’t care how. I just wanted out.”
“And then I crashed through the ceiling.”
“And then you crashed through the ceiling.” Despite everything, her lips twitched. “I didn’t expect a dragon.”
“Are you glad?” The question came out vulnerable, almost afraid. “That it was me? That I’m the one who took you?”
Freya studied him—this ancient, powerful being who’d upended her life and was now looking at her like her answer mattered more than anything in the world. Through the bond, she felt his fear. His desperate need to know that she didn’t regret being here, being with him, even if she wasn’t ready to fully accept the bond yet.
“Yes,” she admitted quietly. “I’m glad it was you.”
His breath caught. “Really?”
“Viktor would have broken me. Slowly, methodically, until there was nothing left of who I am. You—” She gestured helplessly. “You kidnapped me. Started a potential war. Turned my entire life upside down. But you also gave me choice. Gave me space to figure out what I want instead of just telling me what I should want.”
“I could do better at the space thing,” he said wryly. “My dragon hates being away from you.”
“I know. I can feel it through the bond.” She moved closer, drawn by something she didn’t want to examine too closely. “But you’re trying. That matters.”
They stood inches apart, the waterfall roaring behind them, the setting sun painting everything in gold. Through the bond, Freya felt his desire—fierce and consuming—barely leashed. Felt her own answering attraction, the pull that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the vulnerability in his eyes when he talked about his loneliness.
“Freya,” he breathed, and the way he said her name—like a prayer, like a promise—made heat pool in her stomach.
She didn’t remember closing the distance between them. Didn’t remember reaching up to touch his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. But suddenly she was touching him, and he was frozen under her hand, barely breathing, letting her explore without pushing for more.
“I want to kiss you,” she whispered.
“Then kiss me.” His voice was rough. “Please.”
She rose on her toes, closing the final distance, and—
Pulled back at the last second.
“I can’t.” The words came out panicked. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Through the bond, her emotions were a mess—attraction and fear and confusion all tangled together. She wanted him. She was terrified of wanting him. She couldn’t tell if the desire was hers or the bond’s, and that uncertainty made her freeze.
Lysander stood perfectly still, his silver eyes glowing with barely suppressed need. But he didn’t reach for her. Didn’t try to close the distance she’d created. Just breathed through what was clearly taking enormous control.
“Don’t apologize,” he managed finally. “You don’t owe me anything, Freya. Not kisses, not acceptance, nothing.”
“But I want to.” She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling exposed and frustrated. “I want to kiss you. I want to stop questioning every feeling. I want to just let myself feel without being terrified it’s the bond manipulating me.”
“The bond isn’t manipulating you.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I can feel you through it.” He took a careful step back, giving her space. “Every doubt, every fear, every moment of genuine attraction—I feel all of it. And I can tell the difference between what the bond amplifies and what’s truly yours. Right now? This attraction? It’s yours, Freya. It’s real.”
“But how do I know that? How do I trust what I’m feeling when there’s magic involved?”
Lysander ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the bond. Not at her—at the situation, at the impossible position they were both in. “I don’t know how to prove it to you. I can tell you the bond doesn’t create feelings, only recognizes and strengthens what’s already there. But you have to believe that for yourself.”
“I need more time.” The words felt inadequate. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve waited so long already, and I’m asking for more time, but I can’t—”
“Take all the time you need.” His voice was firm, absolute. “I’ll wait another century if I must. I’ve already waited this long for you—what’s a few more weeks in comparison?”
Through the bond, she felt the truth of it. And underneath the truth, the cost. Every moment of uncertainty was agony for him. Every moment she pulled away made his dragon rage against the restraint. But he was willing to endure it. For her.
Because he loved her more than he needed to claim her.
The realization made her chest ache.
“You really would wait,” she whispered. “Even if it’s killing you.”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Because forcing you, rushing you, taking what I want without your genuine consent—that would destroy us both. I’d rather wait a century and have you choose me freely than claim you today and always wonder if you truly wanted me.”
Freya looked at him—really looked at him. At the tension in his shoulders from restraining his dragon. At the silver glow in his eyes that spoke of barely leashed need. At the way his hands were clenched into fists to keep from reaching for her.
He was in agony. And he was enduring it. For her.
“Lysander—”
“Don’t.” His voice was rough. “Don’t say anything you don’t mean. Don’t try to comfort me or apologize or explain. Just… be honest. That’s all I ask. If you need more time, take it. If you need space, I’ll give it. If you need me to prove myself a thousand different ways, I’ll do it.” He took a shaky breath. “But don’t kiss me out of guilt or obligation. When you kiss me—if you kiss me—I want it to be because you choose it. Because you want me. Not because you feel sorry for the desperate dragon who’s been waiting over a century.”
The raw honesty in his words broke something inside her. This ancient, powerful being, reduced to desperate hope and vulnerability. Offering her everything while asking for nothing in return.
“I do want you,” she admitted quietly. “That’s what scares me. I want you so much it terrifies me. Because what if it’s not real? What if I’m just responding to the bond, and when we complete it, I’ll realize I never actually wanted this?”
“Then we don’t complete it until you’re sure.” Lysander moved closer—slowly, giving her time to retreat. “Freya, the bond can exist without being consummated. We can take this as slow as you need. Spend months, years even, getting to know each other before we make it permanent. The bond will get stronger, more insistent, but we can manage that.”
“You said you’d lose your dragon if the bond isn’t completed.”
“Not immediately. I have time.” His expression was serious. “Maybe a year before it becomes critical. But that’s a year to prove to you that what we have is real. That choosing me means choosing partnership, not possession.”
“And if a year passes and I still can’t be sure?”
“Then we deal with that when it comes.” He reached out slowly, tucking a strand of wind-blown hair behind her ear. The touch was gentle, reverent. “But I don’t think it will take that long. I think once you stop fighting what you feel, once you let yourself trust that the attraction is real and not manufactured, you’ll know. You’ll feel the difference between magic amplifying emotion and genuine connection.”
Through the bond, Freya felt his certainty. His absolute belief that they were meant for each other, that the bond had chosen correctly, that given time she would see it too.
It was intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure.
“I want to believe you,” she whispered.
“Then believe me.” He dropped his hand, stepping back again. “Take the time you need. Question everything. Test the bond in every way you can think of. And at the end, when you’ve exhausted every doubt, you’ll know the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That we’re meant for each other. Bond or no bond. Magic or no magic.” His smile was soft, devastating. “That being my mate isn’t about destiny forcing us together. It’s about two people who fit, who balance each other, who choose to face eternity side by side.”
Freya’s throat tightened with emotion. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple. We’re just making it complicated.” He glanced at the darkening sky. “We should head back. The sun’s setting, and I don’t want you to get cold.”
Always taking care of her. Always putting her needs first. Even when it cost him.
“Lysander?”
He turned back. “Yes?”
“Thank you. For waiting. For understanding. For not pushing me even though I know you want to.”
His smile was bittersweet. “Thank you for not giving up on us. For staying even though I’ve made every possible mistake. For giving me a chance to prove myself worthy.”
“You don’t have to prove—”
“I do.” His eyes glowed silver in the twilight. “Because you deserve someone who earns your love, not someone who demands it. And I will earn it, Freya. Every day for the rest of our lives if that’s what it takes.”
He shifted to dragon form, lowering himself so she could climb onto his back. The flight home was quieter than the flight out—both of them lost in thought, processing what had almost happened by the waterfall.
Through the bond, Freya felt his emotions: hope and longing and desperate love, all carefully contained. He was giving her space. Honoring his promise to let her choose freely.
It made her want him more.
Which was terrifying.
Which was also maybe the point.
As they landed in the palace courtyard and she slid from his back, their eyes met. Understanding passed between them—this wasn’t over. This almost-kiss, this moment of vulnerability, this crack in her carefully constructed walls.
It was just beginning.
“Goodnight, Freya,” Lysander said softly. Back in human form, clothed by magic, looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“Goodnight,” she whispered.
She walked away, feeling his presence through the bond the entire way back to her chambers.
And when she finally closed the door behind her, alone with her thoughts and her racing heart, she admitted something she’d been denying since the moment he crashed through that cathedral ceiling:
She was falling for him.
Maybe she’d been falling all along.
The bond wasn’t forcing it.
It was just making it impossible to deny.
And that terrified her more than any dragon ever could.
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