Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~12 min read
Freya couldn’t sleep.
She’d tried. Gods knew she’d tried. The bed was absurdly comfortable—some kind of enchanted mattress that adjusted to her body, sheets that felt like cool silk against her skin, pillows that smelled faintly of lavender. After the day she’d had, she should have been unconscious the moment her head hit those perfect pillows.
Instead, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling him.
The bond was worse at night. Or maybe better, depending on how she looked at it. During the day, with distractions and conversations and the overwhelming newness of everything, she could almost ignore the constant awareness of Lysander’s presence. But now, in the quiet darkness, there was nothing to filter it out.
She could feel his emotions like they were her own. Restlessness. Longing. A fierce protectiveness that made her skin prickle with awareness. And underneath it all, a bone-deep exhaustion that he was apparently fighting.
He wasn’t sleeping either.
“This is ridiculous,” Freya muttered, throwing back the covers. She padded to the window in her borrowed nightgown—another perfectly fitted garment that had appeared while she bathed, because apparently the dragon court had magic tailors.
The view from her chambers was stunning. Mountains stretched endlessly under a sky full of stars she didn’t recognize. The moons—plural, because of course this realm had multiple moons—cast silver light over everything. And in the distance, she could see figures moving through the sky. Dragons, flying patrol or simply enjoying the night air.
She wondered if one of them was Lysander.
As if summoned by the thought, she felt his presence sharpen in her awareness. Closer now. Moving toward… her chambers?
Freya’s heart jumped into her throat. Was he coming here? To check on her? To claim his mate bond privileges? To—
A knock on her door. Soft, almost hesitant.
She froze, torn between answering and pretending to be asleep. But the bond betrayed her—she felt his awareness of her wakefulness, just as she felt his.
“I know you’re awake,” his voice came through the door. “I’m not here to pressure you. I just… I need to know you’re alright.”
Freya debated for exactly three seconds before crossing to the door. She opened it a crack, peering out.
Lysander stood in the hallway, and he looked… terrible. Dark circles under his silver eyes, hair disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it, wearing only loose sleep pants that sat low on his hips. The runes on his arms seemed to glow faintly in the dim light.
“I’m fine,” she said, even though it was a lie. She wasn’t fine. She was confused and overwhelmed and terrified and inexplicably drawn to him in ways that had nothing to do with logic.
“You’re not sleeping.”
“Neither are you.”
“I can feel your distress through the bond. It’s…” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m trying to give you space. But my dragon is losing his mind knowing you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset. I’m processing.”
“You’re terrified. Confused. Angry. I can feel all of it, Freya.” His voice dropped. “And I hate that I caused it. I hate that my claiming you—saving you, whatever we’re calling it—has made you feel trapped again.”
The raw honesty in his voice made her chest ache. She opened the door wider, studying him in the moonlight. “You really can feel everything I feel?”
“Not everything. Not your thoughts. Just… emotions. Strong ones, anyway. It’s like background noise that gets louder when we’re close.” He leaned against the doorframe, careful to stay outside her chambers. “It goes both ways. You can feel me too, right?”
Freya nodded slowly. “You’re exhausted. And restless. And something else—something intense that I can’t quite identify.”
“Longing.” The word came out rough. “The bond wants me near you. My dragon wants to be with his mate. It’s taking everything I have to stay away.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because you’re not sleeping. And I thought—I don’t know what I thought. That maybe if I checked on you, made sure you were physically safe, my dragon would calm down enough to let me rest.” He laughed, bitter. “Clearly that’s not working. Being this close only makes it worse.”
Freya should have closed the door. Should have sent him away. Should have maintained the boundaries that were the only thing keeping her from completely losing herself in this insane situation.
Instead, she heard herself say, “Come in.”
Lysander’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Come in. Just for a minute. Maybe if we talk, we’ll both be able to sleep.” She stepped back, opening the door fully. “Unless that’s a terrible idea. Is that a terrible idea?”
“Probably.” But he was already moving, drawn into her chambers like she’d pulled him on a string. He stopped just inside the doorway, his whole body tense. “I won’t touch you. I won’t—I’m just here to talk. I promise.”
“I know.” And strangely, she did know. Through the bond, she could feel his iron control, the way he was fighting every instinct to keep from reaching for her. “You’ve been very… restrained. For a kidnapper.”
He winced. “Still calling it kidnapping?”
“Still counts as kidnapping.”
“Fair enough.” He moved to the window, putting physical distance between them. Smart. Freya could feel the pull of the bond, urging her to move closer, and if he was struggling too, separation was probably wise.
They stood in silence for a moment, both staring out at the moonlit mountains.
“I’m sorry,” Lysander said finally. “For all of it. For not explaining first, for not giving you real choice, for turning your life upside down. I know saying it doesn’t fix anything, but I need you to know—I never wanted to make you feel trapped.”
“And yet here I am. In a magical realm I can’t leave, bonded to a man I don’t know, with my entire world believing I was kidnapped by a dragon.” Freya wrapped her arms around herself. “What happened to Viktor? To the wedding?”
“Chaos, probably. Your groom declared war on the dragon courts. Your guests likely fled in terror. The cathedral needs extensive repairs.” He glanced at her. “Your family is being questioned about our connection, though they’ll have no answers to give.”
Guilt twisted in Freya’s stomach. “My mother must be furious.”
“Would you have preferred I left you there?”
The question hung between them, heavy with meaning.
“No,” Freya admitted quietly. “Viktor would have been… he would have hurt me. Eventually. I saw it in his eyes—that cruelty. That need to break things.” She looked at Lysander. “But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about being claimed like property.”
“You’re not property. You’re my mate.”
“Those sound similar from where I’m standing.”
Lysander turned to face her fully, his silver eyes intense. “They’re not. Property can be owned, controlled, discarded. A mate is an equal. A partner. Someone you choose every day because living without them is unthinkable.” He took a breath. “I claimed you in that cathedral, yes. But you have to claim me back, Freya. The bond doesn’t work otherwise. You hold all the power here, whether you realize it or not.”
“It doesn’t feel like power. It feels like responsibility. Like I’m holding your life in my hands and if I make the wrong choice, you die.”
“Then forget about me.” His voice was fierce. “Forget about the bond and the consequences and all of it. Just focus on what you want. Not what you should do or what’s expected—what do you actually want?”
What did she want?
Freya turned the question over in her mind. Twenty-three years of being told what to want, who to be, how to act. Her whole life had been about other people’s expectations—her parents’ need for her to save the family name, Viktor’s desire for a docile bride, society’s demand that she be perfect and polished and pleasing.
No one had ever asked what she wanted.
“I want freedom,” she said finally. “I want to make my own choices. I want to wake up in the morning and decide what to do with my day without someone telling me I can’t.” She met his eyes. “I want to understand what this bond means without feeling guilty about every decision. And I want—”
She stopped, the words catching in her throat.
“What?” Lysander moved closer, drawn by her emotion through the bond. “What do you want, Freya?”
“I want to know if what I’m feeling is real,” she whispered. “Because when I look at you, I feel… something. A pull. A recognition. Like I’ve been waiting for you without knowing it. And I don’t know if that’s the bond forcing me to feel that way or if it’s actually real.”
Lysander stopped inches from her, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his skin. Dragons ran hot—she’d learned that much already. His eyes searched her face, desperate and hopeful.
“It’s real,” he said softly. “The bond doesn’t create feelings, Freya. It recognizes what’s already there. We were meant for each other long before I crashed your wedding. The magic just helped us find each other faster than we would have on our own.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I can feel you.” He raised his hand, hovering near her cheek but not touching. “Your emotions, your essence, the core of who you are. And everything I feel tells me that you’re perfect. Not because you’re flawless—you’re stubborn and defensive and angry at me most of the time. But because even your flaws fit my strengths. Even your sharp edges match the spaces in me.”
Freya’s breath caught. “That’s the bond talking.”
“Is it?” His hand dropped. “Or is it the truth the bond revealed? What if we would have found each other anyway? What if I’d seen you at that diplomatic function—really seen you—and fallen in love the old-fashioned way? The bond just accelerated what was always going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.” He stepped back, giving her space again. “But we have time to figure it out. I’m not asking you to accept the bond tonight. I’m not even asking you to trust me. I’m just asking you to stay. Get to know me. Let me prove that this is real—magic or no magic.”
Through the bond, Freya felt his sincerity. He meant every word. And more than that, she felt his restraint—the cost of staying distant, of not claiming what his dragon insisted was already his.
He was keeping his promise. Giving her choice.
And gods help her, that made her want to choose him.
“I have questions,” she said instead of answering. “About you. About dragon culture. About what being your mate actually means.”
Relief flooded through the bond. “Ask me anything.”
“How old are you really?”
“One hundred twenty-seven.”
Freya blinked. “You’re ancient.”
“I’m barely an adult by dragon standards. Most dragons live five hundred years or more.” He smiled slightly. “I know it sounds like a lot to you, but I’ve only really existed for a fraction of a dragon lifetime. I’ve been waiting for you for most of it.”
“That’s…” Freya didn’t have words for how that made her feel. “What’s it like? Living that long?”
“Lonely.” The word came out honest, raw. “Watching generations come and go, never finding the one person who makes it all make sense. My parents have been mated for three centuries—I grew up watching their bond, seeing how complete they were together. And I wanted that. I’ve wanted it for so long.”
“And then you scented me.”
“And then I scented you, and everything changed. Suddenly all that waiting made sense. Every year, every century, every moment of loneliness—it was all leading me to that cathedral. To you.” His eyes glowed silver in the darkness. “You’re not just my mate, Freya. You’re the reason I exist.”
The intensity of his gaze made her shiver. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“I don’t mean it as pressure. I mean it as truth.” He moved toward the door, clearly struggling with being so close to her. “I should go. Let you sleep.”
“Wait.” Freya surprised herself. “One more question.”
He turned back. “Anything.”
“Do you regret it? Crashing my wedding? Starting a war? Kidnapping me?”
Lysander was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I regret that I scared you. I regret that I didn’t handle it better. But do I regret having you here, safe, away from a man who would have hurt you?” His voice dropped. “Not for a second. I’d do it again. Every time. In every life.”
The certainty in his words sent heat through her chest. This was a man—a dragon—who knew exactly what he wanted and wouldn’t apologize for fighting for it.
It should have terrified her.
Instead, it made her feel… seen. Valued. Worth fighting for.
“Goodnight, Lysander,” she said softly.
He smiled—really smiled, and it transformed his face from severe to almost boyish. “Goodnight, Freya. Sleep well, mate.”
Then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Freya stood in the center of her chambers, feeling his presence fade as he moved away through the palace. But the warmth in her chest remained—that constant awareness of him, the bond connecting them whether she wanted it to or not.
She climbed back into bed, and this time, with his restlessness settled and his presence no longer pulled taut with tension, she felt her own exhaustion return.
Through the bond, she felt him settle too. In his own chambers, on the opposite side of the palace. Far enough to give her space. Close enough that neither of them had to feel alone.
Worth fighting for, she thought as sleep finally claimed her.
And from across the palace, through magic and fate and a bond she didn’t fully understand yet, she felt his answering warmth.
Always.
For the first time since her life had been upended, Freya slept without nightmares.
And dreamed instead of silver eyes and dragons in flight.
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