The flight to her family’s estate took most of the day.
Freya rode on Lysander’s back, the bond keeping them connected despite the wind and altitude. She could feel his concern for her, his protective instincts on high alert entering human lands that had recently been hostile.
But no one attacked. If anything, people stopped to stare as the massive black dragon flew overhead, carrying his mate. Word of their story had spread—the kidnapped bride who’d become a princess, who’d defeated Viktor in combat, who’d chosen her dragon freely.
They were a legend now. Whether they wanted to be or not.
The estate looked smaller than Freya remembered. Or maybe she’d grown—not physically, but in every other way that mattered. The grand manor that had once been her entire world now seemed confining, suffocating. She couldn’t imagine living here again, trapped by expectations and social rules.
She’d tasted freedom. There was no going back.
Lysander landed in the courtyard, shifting to human form and helping her down. Servants rushed out, their expressions a mix of shock, fear, and curiosity. The dragon prince himself, here at their manor.
“I’m here to see my father,” Freya announced, her voice carrying the authority of someone who’d spent months learning to command dragons. “Where is he?”
“Lady Freya—Princess Freya—” The head butler stumbled over her title. “Your father is in his chambers. The illness has progressed quickly. I’ll take you to him.”
Lysander’s hand found hers, squeezing gently. Through the bond: I’m here. Whatever happens, I’m here.
Her father’s chambers were dark, smelling of sickness and herbs meant to ease pain. Lord Thornwood lay in bed, a shadow of the imposing man she remembered. Illness had ravaged him, left him gaunt and weak.
But his eyes—when they opened and found her—were still sharp.
“Freya.” Her name came out raspy. “You came.”
“I came.” She moved closer, Lysander a solid presence at her back. “You asked to see me.”
“I did.” Her father’s gaze moved to Lysander, taking in the dragon prince with a mix of fear and resignation. “And you brought him. Your… mate.”
“My husband. My choice. My mate.” Freya kept her voice steady. “Yes, I brought him. Where I go, he goes.”
“As it should be.” Her father coughed, the sound wet and terrible. “I wanted to apologize. Before I die. For what I did to you.”
Freya had prepared speeches on the flight. Had planned exactly what she wanted to say—about betrayal, about being sold like property, about the years of suffocation under his control.
But standing here, watching him die, the anger felt hollow.
“You forced me to marry Viktor,” she said quietly. “Sold me to save the family fortunes. Didn’t ask what I wanted. Didn’t care that he was cruel.”
“I know.” Tears leaked from his eyes. “I told myself it was necessary. That you’d learn to accept it. That daughters of nobility always sacrificed for family.” He coughed again. “I was wrong. I was a coward who prioritized money over my daughter’s happiness.”
Through the bond, Freya felt Lysander’s support. His silent promise that whatever she decided—forgiveness or continued anger—he would stand by her.
“You gave me away without a second thought,” she continued. “Decided my entire future without asking me. And yes, that led to Lysander crashing my wedding, starting a potential war, kidnapping me. All of that chaos—it started with you.”
“I’m sorry.” Her father’s voice broke. “If I could undo it—”
“But you can’t. And honestly?” Freya surprised herself with the words. “I’m glad you can’t. Because yes, you gave me away. But in doing that, you accidentally gave me the opportunity to find myself. To fight for my own fate. To become someone stronger than I ever would have been under your control.”
She looked at Lysander, at the dragon who’d crashed her life and given her chaos and freedom in equal measure.
“You meant to trap me in a gilded cage with Viktor,” she told her father. “Instead, you pushed me toward someone who taught me I could break cages. Who gave me real choice. Who loves me not as property but as an equal.”
Her father’s gaze moved to Lysander, assessing. “You love my daughter?”
“More than life itself.” Lysander’s voice was absolute. “I would die for her. Have nearly died for her. Will spend eternity proving I’m worthy of her.”
“And you treat her well? Give her freedom, choice, respect?”
“He kidnapped me,” Freya said bluntly. “Let’s not pretend it started well. But yes. He gives me freedom. Respects my choices even when they terrify him. Loves me as a partner, not a possession.”
“Then I’m glad.” Her father’s smile was weak but genuine. “I failed you as a father. Failed to protect you, to give you the freedom you deserved. But somehow—accidentally—I pushed you toward someone who succeeded where I failed.”
“You did fail me,” Freya agreed. No point in lying to make him comfortable. “You failed me for years. Suffocated me with expectations. Sold me for coin. But Father—” Her voice softened. “I forgive you. Not because you deserve it, but because I’m choosing to let go of the anger. I’m choosing to focus on the future I’ve built instead of the past you tried to force on me.”
Through the bond, she felt Lysander’s pride in her strength. His support of her choice to forgive, even though he still held anger toward her father for how he’d treated her.
“Thank you.” Her father’s hand reached out, shaking. Freya took it, surprised by how frail he felt. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’m grateful for it.”
They sat in silence for a moment, years of hurt and resentment settling into something like peace.
“Tell me about your life,” her father said eventually. “In the dragon court. Are you happy?”
“I’m happy.” And through the bond, Lysander felt the absolute truth of it. “I have freedom I never had here. Magic I’m learning to control. A mate who loves me beyond reason. A future measured in centuries instead of decades.” She smiled. “I’m happy, Father. Truly, completely happy.”
“Then I can die in peace.” His eyes were closing, exhaustion taking him. “Knowing I failed you, yes. But also knowing you found happiness despite me. Found a good man, even if he is a dragon.”
“The best dragon,” Freya corrected softly.
“The only dragon who matters,” Lysander added.
Her father’s laugh turned into a cough. “Arrogant. But I suppose dragons can afford to be.” His breathing was becoming more labored. “Freya. One last thing.”
“Yes?”
“You were always stronger than I gave you credit for. I tried to break that strength, to mold you into what society expected. But you kept your fire hidden, waiting for the chance to let it burn.” His grip on her hand tightened weakly. “I’m proud of you. Proud of who you became, despite my failures. Proud that you fought for your own fate.”
Tears burned in Freya’s eyes. “Thank you.”
“Live well, daughter. Love freely. And don’t let anyone—dragon or human—try to control you again.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
Her father’s eyes closed. His breathing slowed, became peaceful. And with Freya’s hand in his and the knowledge that she’d found happiness, Lord Thornwood slipped away.
Freya sat there for a long moment, tears streaming down her face. Crying not for the father he’d been, but for the father he could have been if he’d chosen differently. Grieving the relationship they’d never had.
Lysander pulled her into his arms, letting her cry against his chest. Through the bond, his love wrapped around her like a shield, absorbing some of her pain.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“Don’t be. He made his choices. I made mine. And somehow, we all ended up where we needed to be.”
They stayed for the funeral—three days of human mourning rituals that felt foreign to Freya now. She’d been away less than a year, but she’d changed so fundamentally that her old life felt like someone else’s story.
Her younger sister, Charlotte, cornered her on the second day.
“Is it true?” Charlotte asked. “That you fought Prince Viktor? That you chose the dragon?”
“It’s true.”
“Was it awful? Being kidnapped, forced to live with dragons?”
Freya thought about her answer carefully. “At first? Yes. I was terrified. But Charlotte—he gave me something Father never did. Choice. Agency. The freedom to decide my own fate.”
“But he kidnapped you!”
“He did. And it was wrong. But he also gave me space to choose whether to stay. Trained me to fight for my freedom. Respected my decisions even when they hurt him.” Freya smiled. “He’s possessive and occasionally infuriating. But he loves me as I am, not as what he wants me to be.”
Charlotte looked wistful. “I’m betrothed too. To Lord Hastings. He’s old and boring and—”
“Then don’t marry him.” Freya’s voice was firm. “You have choices, Charlotte. Maybe not as dramatic as mine, but you have them. Don’t let anyone make you feel like you don’t.”
“But Father—”
“Is dead. And with him dies the obligation to sacrifice yourself for family honor.” Freya gripped her sister’s shoulders. “Live, Charlotte. Choose. Fight for what you want. Don’t wait for a dragon to crash through the ceiling—make your own escape.”
After the funeral, they prepared to leave. Freya had said her goodbyes, made peace with her past, and was ready to return to her real life.
Home.
With her dragon.
As they lifted into the sky, Freya looked back one last time at the estate. At the cage she’d escaped. At the life she’d been forced toward and had rejected.
“No regrets?” Lysander asked through the bond.
“No regrets.” She leaned into his neck, feeling the wind and the freedom and the joy of having wings—even if they weren’t technically hers. “Take me home.”
“Always.”
And they flew toward the Drakemyr Mountains, toward their future, toward the life they’d chosen together.
Full circle.
From kidnapped bride to willing mate.
From captive to queen.
From a woman with no choices to a woman who’d fought for every one.
The best kind of ending.
Or rather—the best kind of beginning.
EPILOGUE
Five years later
“Mother! MOTHER! Watch this!”
Freya looked up from the book she was reading just in time to see her son, Ash, launch himself off the training platform in the courtyard. His small dragon wings—not quite coordinated yet—flapped frantically as he tried to maintain altitude.
He lasted about three seconds before gravity won.
Freya moved on instinct, enhanced dragon magic letting her cross the distance impossibly fast. She caught her five-year-old son just before he hit the ground.
“Just like your father,” she said, setting him down with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “No sense of self-preservation whatsoever.”
“I had perfect self-preservation,” Lysander’s voice came from the doorway. “Then I met you, and it all went out the window.”
“You crashed through a cathedral ceiling and kidnapped me. Self-preservation was never your strong suit.”
“Romantic rescue,” he corrected, moving to join his family.
“Kidnapping,” Freya countered.
“Father kidnapped you?” Their daughter, Ember, looked up from where she was practicing shifting between forms. At five, she was better at it than her twin brother—girls developed faster, according to dragon wisdom. “That’s not very nice.”
“It was very not nice,” Freya agreed. “But I forgave him because he brought me dead sheep as an apology.”
Both children giggled. They’d heard the story countless times—how their parents met, how their mother had fought in combat, how she’d saved their father’s life. It was their favorite bedtime story, though Lysander always insisted his version was more accurate.
“Again! Again!” Ash was already climbing back onto the platform. “I’ll get it this time!”
“Maybe use the lower platform first?” Lysander suggested, though through the bond, Freya felt his pride in his son’s fearlessness. “The one that won’t result in your mother having a heart attack?”
“But the high one is more fun!”
“So was crashing your wedding,” Freya muttered. “But we both know how that turned out.”
Lysander pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her waist. “Pretty well, I’d say. Got a mate. Two beautiful children. A kingdom to rule together. Can’t complain.”
Freya leaned into him, watching their children play. Ember had shifted to full dragon form now—small and copper-scaled like her grandmother. Ash was trying to copy her, his shifts still unstable but improving.
Half-dragon children were rare. Powerful. Their twins would grow to be formidable—if they survived their reckless childhood first.
“Your hoard is getting ridiculous,” Freya commented, gesturing to the courtyard where toys were scattered among Lysander’s carefully maintained book collection. “You’ve added baby dragons to the books.”
“Our children are treasures. Of course they belong in the hoard.” His voice was utterly serious. “The toys are necessary accessories.”
“You made a separate pile for Ember’s favorite stuffed dragon.”
“It’s a very important dragon. She named it ‘Father Junior.'” Through the bond, his amusement was obvious. “I’m honored.”
Ember breathed a small gout of fire—impressive for her age—which promptly set a toy cart ablaze.
“And that’s enough practice for today.” Freya moved to extinguish the flames with a wave of magic. “Inside, both of you. Bath time.”
“But Mother—”
“Bath. Time.”
The twins grumbled but obeyed, heading inside with the resigned air of children who knew better than to argue with their mother. Freya had become somewhat legendary in the dragon court—the human queen who commanded dragons and half-dragon children with equal authority.
“You’re good at this,” Lysander said, watching her herd their children inside.
“At what? Stopping fires and preventing aerial accidents?”
“At being a mother. A queen. A mate. Everything.” He pulled her close again, his forehead pressing to hers. “At being happy.”
She was happy. Deliriously, completely, sometimes exhaustingly happy. Ruling the Drakemyr Court alongside Lysander. Teaching her children to control their magic. Learning new spells and diplomatic strategies. Bridging human and dragon worlds through her unique position.
“I love you,” she said simply.
“I love you more.” His standard response after five years of marriage, still delivered with absolute sincerity.
“That’s still impossible.”
“And yet completely true.”
Later that evening, after the twins were finally asleep and the fires extinguished and the hoard reorganized, Lysander took Freya flying.
They soared over the Drakemyr Mountains, over the palace, toward the human kingdoms in the distance. And as they flew, Freya saw it—
The cathedral.
The place where it all began. Where Lysander had crashed through the ceiling and stolen her from a wedding she’d been dreading.
It had been rebuilt. Restored to its former glory. But now, there was something new.
A massive stained glass window dominated the front of the cathedral. And depicted in colored glass, immortalized forever—
A dragon carrying a bride.
Their story. Preserved in glass and light and legend.
“They made us a window,” Freya breathed.
“They made us a legend.” Lysander circled lower so she could see better. “The Dragon Prince and his kidnapped bride. The combat. The choice. The love that bridged two worlds.”
The window was beautiful—artistic and detailed, showing not just the kidnapping but the journey. Her fighting Viktor. The bond completing. The wedding. Everything that had led them to this moment.
“Best kidnapping ever,” Freya said, only half joking.
“I prefer ‘romantic rescue,'” Lysander countered.
“It was definitely kidnapping.”
“Romantic. Kidnapping.”
“Both.” She laughed, the sound carrying across the night sky. “It was both. Terrible and wonderful and completely insane.”
“Just like us.”
“Just like us,” she agreed.
They hovered there for a moment, looking at their story told in glass. At the legend they’d become. At the proof that sometimes the worst decisions led to the best outcomes.
Then Lysander shifted back to human, both of them hovering on dragon magic, and pulled her into a kiss that tasted like home and forever and everything they’d built together.
Dragons soared overhead—members of their court, patrolling the borders, living their lives in the realm Freya and Lysander ruled together.
“Ready to go home?” Lysander asked, his forehead pressed to hers.
Home. The dragon palace. Their children. Their life.
“Always,” Freya said.
And they flew back together, two parts of a whole, perfectly matched and completely in love.
The kidnapped bride and her dragon prince.
Living proof that sometimes the wrong beginning led to the perfect ending.
Or rather—the perfect beginning of forever.
THE END
In the cathedral window, if one looked closely, there was an inscription at the bottom:
“Sometimes love crashes through ceilings and steals you away from fate. This is not a story of captivity. This is a story of choice. May all who see this remember: freedom is not the absence of bonds, but the presence of bonds we choose willingly.”
—Princess Freya, Queen of Dragons, Mate of Prince Lysander, Chooser of Her Own Damn Fate
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