Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~13 min read
“I want to show you something,” Lysander said the next evening.
They’d spent the day together—flying over the mountains, walking through the gardens, existing in each other’s presence without the weight of deadlines or decisions pressing down. It had been easy. Natural. Like maybe they were figuring out how to be partners instead of kidnapper and captive.
“Show me what?” Freya asked.
“Something I’ve kept private. Something no one else knows about.” His expression was vulnerable in a way that made her chest ache. “Will you trust me?”
Through the bond, she felt his nervousness. Whatever he wanted to show her mattered. A lot.
“I trust you,” she said, and through the bond, she felt his relief.
He led her to his chambers—the massive suite she’d woken up in after the assassination attempt but hadn’t explored thoroughly. Past the bedroom, past the sitting area lined with books, to a door she’d assumed was a closet.
“I’ve been working on something since the moment I scented you,” he said, hand on the door handle. “It’s… raw. Unfinished. Probably not very good. But it’s honest.”
He opened the door.
The room beyond was flooded with evening light from floor-to-ceiling windows. And covering every wall, propped on easels, stacked against furniture—paintings. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
All of her.
Freya stepped inside, her breath catching. They weren’t formal portraits. They were moments, emotions, impressions. Her face in profile, caught in sunlight. Her hands holding a book, fingers delicate against leather binding. Her eyes—painted over and over in different lights, different emotions, always honey-brown and always alive.
But more than that—they were feelings made visible. The paintings didn’t just show her face. They showed longing, hope, desperate need, wonder. They showed how he saw her.
“You painted these?” Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
“I’m not particularly skilled. Dragons aren’t known for artistic ability—we’re more about hoarding than creating.” He moved to stand beside her, looking at his work with critical eyes. “But I couldn’t stop. From the moment I scented you at that diplomatic function, I couldn’t get you out of my head. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. So I started painting.”
Freya moved deeper into the room, studying each canvas. Some were detailed, almost photorealistic. Others were abstract—swirls of color that somehow captured emotion better than precision ever could. But all of them were her. The way he saw her. The way he felt about her.
“This is from the wedding,” she said, stopping in front of a larger canvas. It showed her at the altar, but not how she’d actually looked. The painting showed her as trapped—chains made of flowers, a veil like a shroud, her expression one of desperate, quiet desperation.
“That’s what I saw when I looked at you in that cathedral,” Lysander said quietly. “Not a beautiful bride. A prisoner. Someone dying inside while everyone celebrated her captivity.”
She moved to the next painting. This one showed her screaming, being carried by dragon claws across a mountain range. But her face wasn’t terrified—it was free. Alive. Like despite the fear, she was finally escaping.
“That’s how I hoped you felt,” he admitted. “Scared, yes. But free.”
Another painting: her standing in his mother’s study, wearing his borrowed clothes, looking small but defiant. Demanding to be heard.
“That’s when I knew I’d made the right choice,” he said. “You were fighting me. Calling me out. Demanding respect. You weren’t broken. Weren’t going to just accept whatever I decided. You were strong.”
Freya’s throat tightened with emotion. These paintings—they weren’t just art. They were a record of every moment since he’d found her. Every emotion he’d felt. Every hope, fear, and desperate prayer that she’d choose to stay.
“How long did these take?” she asked.
“Hours. Days. I don’t sleep much—incomplete bond and anxious dragon.” He gestured to the canvases. “When I can’t sleep, I paint. Try to capture what you are to me. What you mean.”
She stopped in front of an unfinished canvas—her most recent portrait. It showed her laughing, honey-brown eyes bright with joy, surrounded by books. The background was incomplete, rough sketches waiting to be filled in.
“That’s from yesterday,” Lysander said softly. “In the library. You were laughing at something I said, and I thought—that’s it. That’s the moment I want to remember forever. You, choosing to be happy with me.”
Freya touched the canvas gently, feeling the texture of paint still slightly wet. “You painted this last night?”
“Couldn’t help myself. You were in my chambers, sleeping in my bed. I watched you for a while—creepy, I know, but my dragon needed to confirm you were safe—and then I came in here and painted what I was feeling.”
“What were you feeling?”
“Hope.” His voice was rough. “Overwhelming, terrifying hope that maybe you were starting to choose me. That maybe the three weeks would end with you staying.”
Through the bond, Freya felt it—the desperate love that had driven him to create this shrine. Not to her face, but to what she represented. Freedom. Completion. The end of one hundred twenty-seven years of loneliness.
“These aren’t just paintings,” she whispered. “They’re your heart.”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Every canvas is a piece of what I feel. What you are to me.” He moved to stand behind her, close but not touching. “I know you’re scared the bond is forcing your feelings. Making you feel things that aren’t real. But Freya—look at these paintings. Look at what you are to me, and tell me that’s just magic.”
She looked. Really looked. At the desperate need in every brushstroke. The careful attention to every detail—the curve of her smile, the way her hair caught light, the exact shade of brown in her eyes. The emotion bleeding through every canvas.
“This is real for you,” she said. Not a question.
“More real than anything I’ve ever felt. Magic recognized you as my mate, yes. But I fell in love with you all on my own.” He moved to stand beside her, looking at his unfinished painting. “Not just your face—though you’re beautiful. Not just because the bond says we’re compatible. But because of who you are. Your strength. Your defiance. The way you demanded respect when everyone else tried to decide your fate. The way you love books with the same passion I do. The way you laugh when you forget to guard yourself.”
He gestured to the paintings surrounding them. “This is what you are to me. Not magic. Not fate. YOU. The actual person beneath all the prophecy and destiny. And I would love you even if there was no bond. Even if magic had nothing to do with it. Because you’re you, and that’s enough.”
Freya’s vision blurred with tears. She’d been so focused on questioning whether her feelings were real, she hadn’t fully considered—his feelings were real. Completely, devastatingly real. Magic or no magic, this dragon had fallen in love with her. Had painted his heart across dozens of canvases because he couldn’t contain what he felt.
“Lysander—” Her voice broke.
“I’m not showing you this to manipulate you. Or to make you feel guilty for taking time.” He turned to face her. “I’m showing you because you asked if the bond was forcing feelings that aren’t real. And I wanted you to see—for me, it’s real. Magic didn’t make me paint these. Destiny didn’t drive me to capture every moment with you. I did. Because I’m in love with you, Freya Thornwood. Completely. Utterly. Regardless of what any bond says.”
Through the connection between them, she felt it—his heart laid bare. No shields, no defenses, just raw, honest emotion. He’d given her everything. Every vulnerable piece of himself. And he was waiting to see if she’d choose him anyway.
Freya turned to face him fully, her hands shaking. “You love me.”
“Yes.”
“Not because of the bond.”
“The bond recognized what was already true. But the love? That’s all me.” His silver eyes glowed in the evening light. “You can reject the bond. Walk away. Choose a safer life. But Freya—that won’t change what I feel. I’ll love you until the day I fade. Whether you’re mine or not.”
She looked at him—this ancient, powerful dragon who’d reduced himself to desperate vulnerability for her. Who’d painted his heart across canvas after canvas. Who’d fought himself constantly to give her the choice he’d stolen.
And she made a decision.
She kissed him.
Rose on her toes, grabbed his face, and pressed her lips to his before she could overthink it. Before she could question whether it was the bond or her own feelings. Before she could talk herself out of this moment of absolute certainty.
Lysander froze for a heartbeat—shock rippling through the bond—then his hands came up to frame her face and he was kissing her back with a desperation that stole her breath.
The bond flared between them, glowing with magic that made her skin tingle. She felt it—the connection strengthening, recognizing this choice, this moment of her willingly choosing him. Not completed, not sealed forever, but acknowledged. Accepted.
She was kissing him. Finally. Willingly. Choosing him.
The kiss deepened, Lysander’s restraint fracturing as weeks of desperate need broke through. His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, and she let him, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting herself feel everything she’d been denying.
Want. Need. Love that was terrifying in its intensity. And underneath it all, the bond singing between them like a promise—yes, yes, finally yes.
They broke apart eventually, both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together as magic crackled in the air around them.
“Freya—” His voice was wrecked. “Does this mean—”
“I’m not ready to complete the bond,” she said quickly. “I’m still scared. Still questioning. Still need more time to be completely sure.”
Through the bond, she felt his disappointment warring with understanding.
“But—” She pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “I’m not running anymore. Not fighting what I feel. Not questioning every emotion to death. I kissed you because I wanted to. Because seeing all of this—” she gestured to the paintings “—made me realize that what you feel is real. And if your feelings can be real despite the bond, then maybe mine can be too.”
“So what does this mean?”
“It means I’m choosing to fall. To let myself feel what I feel without constantly analyzing whether it’s manufactured.” She touched his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw. “It means I’m giving us a real chance. Not just you proving yourself worthy—me actively choosing you.”
Through the bond, his hope was blinding. “That’s enough,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “That’s everything.”
“You’re not disappointed? That I’m still not ready to complete the bond?”
“Disappointed that you’re not ready yet? Yes. But you kissed me, Freya. Willingly. Without fear or obligation. You looked at my heart laid bare across canvas and chose to kiss me anyway.” He pulled her close again, burying his face in her hair. “That’s more than I hoped for. More than I deserve.”
Through the bond, she felt his joy—pure and overwhelming. His dragon was satisfied, his human side was hopeful, and for once, they were aligned in the same desperate, grateful relief.
She’d chosen him. Not fully, not forever yet. But she’d stopped running. And for a dragon who’d waited one hundred twenty-seven years, that was enough.
For now.
They stood in his secret room, surrounded by paintings of her, the bond glowing between them with renewed strength. Outside, dragons soared through the twilight. Inside, two people were finally choosing each other.
“One week,” Freya said eventually. “We have one week left until the deadline.”
“One week to convince you completely.” He pulled back to look at her, silver eyes bright with determination. “I can work with that.”
“What if you can’t convince me?”
“Then I’ll spend eternity trying.” His thumb traced her cheek. “But Freya? After you kissed me like that? After you looked at all of this and chose to stay anyway? I’m not worried anymore.”
“You should be. I’m still terrified.”
“That’s okay. I’m terrified too.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “But we’re terrified together now. And that makes all the difference.”
Through the bond, she felt the truth of it. They were both scared—him of losing her, her of being trapped. But they were facing that fear together instead of him chasing while she ran.
It wasn’t a completed bond. Wasn’t a guarantee of happily ever after.
But it was progress. Real, genuine progress toward something that might actually work.
“Show me more,” Freya said, gesturing to the paintings. “Tell me about each one. What you were feeling. What you saw.”
Lysander’s smile was brilliant. “It will take hours.”
“I have hours.” She took his hand, interlacing their fingers. “We have a week. Might as well spend it learning everything about each other.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.” She squeezed his hand. “Because if I’m going to choose you—really choose you—I need to know all of it. The good, the bad, the possessive jealousy and the romantic gestures and everything in between.”
“And if what you learn makes you run?”
“Then you’ll chase me again. And we’ll figure it out.” She met his eyes. “But Lysander? I don’t think I’m going to run. Not anymore.”
Through the bond, his hope blazed bright enough to rival the sun.
And in a room full of paintings that showed his heart, Freya Thornwood let herself believe—for the first time since being kidnapped by a dragon—that maybe falling in love wasn’t surrender.
Maybe it was the bravest thing she’d ever done.
And maybe—just maybe—choosing him was the same as choosing herself.
Freedom in a different form.
Love on her own terms.
A dragon prince who’d love her completely, whether the bond demanded it or not.
“One week,” she whispered.
“One week,” he agreed, pulling her close.
And surrounded by art and magic and the promise of what they could become, they chose each other.
Again.
And again.
And maybe—if they were very lucky—forever.
💕 Want to know what happens next? 💕
This chapter continues in Chapter 20.5: “The Secret Room” – available exclusively for Patreon supporters!
After Freya’s willing kiss in his secret painting room, Lysander’s restraint finally breaks. They explore the bond’s intensity without completing it—testing boundaries, discovering each other, and proving that some flames are too hot to contain…
🔥 [Read the steamy continuation on Patreon →]
Reader Reactions