Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~12 min read
Freya had taken to walking in the palace gardens every morning.
It was her quiet time—a moment to think, to process, to escape the overwhelming intensity of living in a magical realm with a dragon prince who was determined to prove himself worthy. The gardens were beautiful, full of flowers that glowed with their own light and trees that whispered secrets in languages she couldn’t understand.
She felt safe here. Protected by palace wards, surrounded by dragons, under sacred guest-right that even Viktor supposedly had to respect.
She should have known better.
The first assassin struck when she was admiring a tree that grew silver leaves. No warning. Just sudden movement from the shadows and cold steel at her throat.
“Don’t scream,” a voice hissed. Male, human, speaking with a Northern Kingdom accent. “Prince Viktor sends his regards.”
Freya’s blood turned to ice. Through the bond, she felt Lysander’s immediate response—alarm spiking to panic, his presence surging toward her location with desperate speed.
“Guest-right—” she managed.
“Doesn’t apply to Viktor’s justice.” The blade pressed harder against her throat. “You’re his stolen bride. He has every right to reclaim what’s his.”
Two more figures emerged from the garden shadows. Assassins, dressed in dark leather that let them blend with the foliage. They’d somehow gotten past the wards, past the dragon guards, into the heart of the palace itself.
This was a suicide mission. They knew they’d die here. But they were loyal enough—or terrified enough—to try anyway.
“Move,” the first assassin commanded, starting to drag her backward toward the garden wall.
Freya didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Terror had frozen her limbs, made her thoughts scatter. But through the bond, she felt Lysander getting closer, felt his fury building like a storm about to break.
Hold on, his presence seemed to say. I’m coming.
“I said MOVE—”
The assassin’s words cut off as a massive black dragon crashed through the garden wall, stone and magic exploding in all directions. Lysander’s roar shook the ground, made the air itself tremble with rage.
The assassin dropped his knife, shoving Freya away as he drew a sword. Futile. Completely futile. But he charged anyway, screaming a battle cry that died in his throat as dragon claws tore through him like he was made of paper.
The other two assassins attacked from different angles—coordinated, professional, doomed. Lysander’s tail swept one into a tree with bone-breaking force. His jaws closed around the other, and Freya looked away before she could see the end.
It was over in seconds.
Three assassins. Three corpses. One very angry dragon standing over them, silver eyes blazing with protective fury.
Then Lysander was shifting, magic crackling as he became human again, and he was moving toward Freya with desperate speed.
“Are you hurt?” His hands were on her face, her shoulders, checking for injuries with shaking fingers. “Did they cut you? Touch you? Freya, answer me—”
“I’m fine.” Her voice came out smaller than intended. “They didn’t—I’m not hurt.”
But she was shaking. Trembling so hard her teeth chattered, adrenaline and terror finally catching up now that the immediate danger was past. She’d been seconds away from being dragged back to Viktor. Seconds away from everything she’d escaped.
“You’re not fine.” Lysander pulled her against him, his arms wrapping around her like he could shield her from the entire world. “You’re shaking. And there’s blood—”
“Not mine.” She pressed her face against his chest, breathing in his scent—smoke and mountain air and something indefinably him. “The assassin. He grabbed me and then you—you killed them.”
“I’d kill them a thousand times over.” His voice was savage. “They threatened you. Touched you. Tried to take you from me.”
Through the bond, she felt it—the absolute terror that had gripped him when he’d sensed her danger. The primal fury that had driven him to destroy without hesitation. The desperate relief now that she was safe in his arms.
And underneath it all, that possessive, consuming need: Mine. MINE to protect.
Palace guards were flooding into the garden now, led by Queen Seraphine and Lord Theron. They took in the scene—the destroyed wall, the dead assassins, Lysander holding Freya like he’d never let go—and understood immediately what had happened.
“Guest-right violation,” Queen Seraphine said, her voice cold as winter. “Viktor sent assassins into our palace.”
“To kidnap Lady Freya,” one of the guards confirmed, examining the bodies. “They’re marked. Northern Kingdom soldiers, elite unit. This was a planned extraction.”
“During sacred guest-right.” King Aldric appeared, magic crackling around him with barely contained fury. “That fool has signed his own death warrant.”
“We need to secure the palace,” Theron said. “If three got in, there might be more—”
“There aren’t.” Lysander’s voice was absolute. “I checked. These were the only ones.” He hadn’t moved, hadn’t released Freya, was still holding her like the world might try to steal her away if he relaxed for even a second.
Through the bond, Freya felt his dragon raging. Not satisfied with killing three assassins. Wanting to fly to the human kingdoms, find Viktor, and reduce him to ash for daring to threaten what was his.
“Lysander.” Queen Seraphine’s voice was gentle but firm. “Let the healers check her.”
“She’s not hurt.”
“Let them check anyway.”
He pulled back fractionally, enough to look at Freya’s face. His silver eyes were still glowing with dragon fire, his hands gentle despite the violence they’d just committed. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m sure.” She touched his face, feeling the tension thrumming through him. “You got here in time. You saved me.”
“I should have been closer. Should have been watching. Should have—”
“You saved me,” she repeated firmly. “That’s all that matters.”
But through the bond, she felt his guilt. His absolute conviction that this was his fault for not protecting her well enough. For bringing her here where Viktor could send assassins. For not killing the human prince when he’d had the chance at the wedding.
A healer approached—an elderly dragon woman with kind eyes—and gently coaxed Lysander into letting Freya go. He moved exactly three steps away, close enough to intervene if needed, watching like a predator guarding his mate.
The examination was quick. No injuries beyond some bruising where the assassin had grabbed her. Nothing that wouldn’t heal in a few days. But Freya couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t process that she’d been seconds away from being dragged back to Viktor.
“Shock,” the healer pronounced. “Understandable given the circumstances. She needs rest, warmth, and time to process.”
“I’ll take her to her chambers,” Lysander said immediately.
“Actually, you should take her to your chambers.” Queen Seraphine’s expression was knowing. “She needs to feel safe right now. And your dragon won’t let her out of your sight anyway. Might as well make everyone comfortable.”
“Mother—”
“It’s not a suggestion, Lysander. Your mate was just attacked. Your dragon is going to be impossible until you’ve confirmed her safety a dozen different ways. Take her to your chambers, let her rest, and try not to destroy anything in your panic.”
Lysander looked at Freya, question in his eyes. “Is that alright? I can take you to your own rooms if you prefer, but—”
“Your chambers,” Freya heard herself say. “Please.”
The relief that flooded through the bond was almost overwhelming.
He swept her into his arms before she could protest, cradling her against his chest like she weighed nothing. Through the gardens, through the palace corridors, past curious servants and concerned guards—he carried her the entire way, his presence wrapped around her through the bond like an additional shield.
His chambers were different from hers. Larger, darker, with a massive bed that could probably fit a dragon in human form comfortably. Books lined every wall—his hoard, she remembered. Windows overlooked the mountains, currently showing the last light of day fading to twilight.
Lysander set her down on the bed carefully, like she might break. Then he immediately started pacing, unable to stay still, his dragon too close to the surface.
“They got past the wards,” he was muttering. “Got past the guards. Got to you. I should have been there. Should have been with you every moment. Should have—”
“Lysander.” Freya’s voice stopped his pacing. “Come here.”
He approached slowly, clearly trying to maintain control. But when he reached the bed, when he was close enough to touch, his restraint shattered. He dropped to his knees beside her, pressing his forehead against her lap, his whole body shaking.
“I felt your terror through the bond,” he said, voice raw. “Felt the knife at your throat. Knew I might not reach you in time. And in that moment, I understood—” He took a shaky breath. “If they’d taken you, if they’d hurt you, I would have burned the world. Started a war that would have consumed kingdoms. Become the monster everyone fears dragons are. All for you.”
Through the bond, Freya felt the depth of his emotion. The absolute terror he’d experienced. The fury that still hadn’t fully abated. The desperate, all-consuming need to protect her from everything that might cause her harm.
“You would have died for me,” she whispered, finally understanding. “Back there. If the assassins had been stronger, better armed—you would have put yourself between them and me without hesitation.”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Always.”
“Why?”
He looked up at her, silver eyes glowing in the dim light. “Because you’re mine. Not in the possessive way you hate—or maybe that too, I can’t help it—but mine in the sense that you’re part of me. My mate. My other half. Losing you would be losing myself. So yes, I’d die for you. Gladly. A thousand times over if it meant keeping you safe.”
Freya’s hand moved to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands. “When you say I’m yours—when your dragon snarls ‘mine’—I always heard ownership. Possession. Another cage.”
“I’m sorry. I never meant—”
“I know. I understand that now.” She cupped his face, making him look at her. “It’s not about owning me. It’s about belonging to each other. About being so intertwined that my safety matters more to you than your own life.”
“Yes.” His hands covered hers, desperate. “Yes, exactly that. You’re mine, and I’m yours. Equal. Balanced. Partners who would die to protect each other.”
Through the bond, she felt it—the absolute truth of his devotion. This wasn’t about control or possession. It was about love so fierce it transcended logic. About a bond that recognized two souls as parts of a whole.
“I was so scared,” she admitted. “When that assassin had the knife to my throat, all I could think was that I’d never gotten to kiss you. Never gotten to tell you—” She stopped, the words catching.
“Tell me what?”
“That maybe I’m falling for you.” The admission came out barely above a whisper. “Maybe I have been since the beginning. Since you crashed through that cathedral roof looking at me like I was everything. And the bond—I don’t think it’s forcing me to feel this way. I think it’s just making it impossible to deny.”
Lysander’s breath caught. “Freya—”
“I’m still scared. Still questioning. Still not ready to accept the bond completely.” She met his eyes. “But I’m starting to understand. What you mean to me. What we could be together. And it’s not as terrifying as it was before.”
“What changed?”
“You.” She smiled despite the tears threatening to fall. “You changed. Or maybe I finally saw who you really are beneath the possessive dragon and the desperate need. You would die for me. But more importantly, you’re letting me live. Giving me choice even when it’s killing you. Proving that being your mate means being your equal.”
Through the bond, his hope blazed bright enough to rival the sun. But he didn’t push, didn’t press his advantage. Just stayed kneeling before her, hands gentle on hers, giving her all the time she needed.
“I’m not ready for forever,” she said quietly. “But maybe I’m ready for more.”
“More?”
“More conversations. More flights to beautiful waterfalls. More moments where I get to see the real you.” She leaned down, pressing her forehead to his. “More chances to fall for you without feeling guilty about it.”
“I can do more.” His voice was rough with emotion. “I can do more for a lifetime if that’s what you need.”
“Just for now, more is enough.”
They stayed like that—foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, the bond humming between them with promise and possibility—while outside, the palace prepared for war and Viktor’s violation of sacred guest-right.
But in this moment, in his chambers surrounded by his book hoard and the fading light, none of that mattered.
What mattered was this: a dragon and his almost-mate, finding their way to each other one terrifying, beautiful moment at a time.
And maybe—just maybe—learning that love wasn’t about destiny forcing them together.
It was about choosing each other, over and over, even when the choice was terrifying.
Especially then.
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