Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~13 min read
Freya woke to sunlight streaming through windows she didn’t recognize and a moment of pure panic before memory caught up with her.
Dragon realm. Fated mate. Kidnapping-slash-rescue.
Right.
She groaned, burying her face in pillows that smelled like mountain air and magic, and tried to convince herself to face the day. Her body ached in strange places—apparently being carried by a dragon for three hours used muscles she didn’t know existed. Her mind felt fuzzy from too little sleep despite finally drifting off. And through it all, she could feel him.
Lysander was awake. Had been for hours, apparently. She could sense his presence like a compass pointing north—steady, constant, and currently moving through the palace with purpose. Doing princely things, probably. Running a magical kingdom. Being ancient and powerful and—
Her stomach growled. Loudly.
Freya sighed. Even her body was betraying her, demanding she face reality instead of hiding in her absurdly comfortable bed forever.
Mira appeared moments later, as if summoned by Freya’s hunger. Her maid looked more rested than yesterday, though still wide-eyed and nervous.
“Good morning, my lady,” Mira said, carrying a tray. “I brought tea and pastries. Princess Lyssa said you’d probably want to ease into dragon cuisine before the dinner tonight.”
“Dinner?” Freya sat up, accepting the tea gratefully. “What dinner?”
“With the royal family. Apparently it’s tradition when someone new arrives at court.” Mira set the tray down, wringing her hands. “Princess Lyssa was very insistent. She came by earlier asking about your preferences for—well, everything. Food, wine, conversation topics. I think she’s excited to have another woman around.”
Freya took a long sip of tea, buying herself time to process. Dinner with dragons. Royal dragons. Lysander’s family, who would be assessing whether the human their son had kidnapped was worthy of being his mate.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Did Princess Lyssa mention if this dinner was optional?” she asked hopefully.
“She said, and I quote, ‘Tell Lady Freya that hiding in her chambers won’t work because Lysander can feel her hunger through the bond and he’ll just show up at her door looking sad and pathetic until she agrees to eat.'” Mira’s lips twitched. “She seemed to think that was very funny.”
Through the bond, Freya felt a surge of amusement that definitely wasn’t hers. Was he listening somehow? Could he sense when she was thinking about him?
This bond is going to be extremely inconvenient, she thought.
The answering warmth suggested yes, he was absolutely aware of her, and yes, he found her frustration entertaining.
“Fine,” Freya said, setting down her teacup with more force than necessary. “Dinner with dragons. How bad could it be?”
It turned out dinner with dragons was conducted in a dining hall that looked like it had been carved from a single massive crystal. The table could have seated fifty people but was set for only six. Floating candles provided warm light, and the ceiling showed the night sky—actual night sky, complete with those strange multiple moons, despite it being barely evening.
Magic. Everything here was magic.
Freya entered on Mira’s arm, wearing yet another perfectly fitted gown—this one midnight blue with silver embroidery that caught the light. She’d refused to let the fae servants do anything elaborate with her hair, settling for a simple braid over one shoulder. Small rebellions, but rebellions nonetheless.
Princess Lyssa spotted her immediately and bounded over with enthusiasm that would have been more appropriate for greeting a long-lost friend than a reluctant guest.
“Freya! You came! I told Lysander you would, but he was worried you’d refuse and then he’d have to—well, never mind what he’d have to do. You’re here!” She linked arms with Freya before she could protest. “Come meet everyone properly. Well, you’ve met Mother, but now you’ll meet Father and Lord Theron, and we can all have a lovely dinner without anyone crashing through ceilings or declaring war. Probably.”
“Probably?” Freya echoed weakly.
“Lyssa, let her breathe.” The male voice came from a man—dragon?—lounging near the fireplace. He was tall and lean, with wind-tousled brown hair and eyes that shifted between blue and silver depending on the light. His smile was pure mischief. “Lord Theron, at your service, Lady Freya. I’m Lysander’s best friend and the voice of reason he consistently ignores.”
“There’s no reasoning with dragon instincts,” Lysander said, entering from another door. He’d cleaned up since last night—hair tied back, formal tunic in deep emerald, those runes on his arms covered but somehow still visible through the fabric. His silver eyes found Freya immediately. “How are you?”
The question seemed simple, but through the bond she felt the depth of his concern. He’d been monitoring her all day—not invasively, just aware of her emotions, making sure she was okay.
“I’m fine,” she said automatically.
His eyebrow raised. “You’re nervous. And hungry. And annoyed that I can tell you’re hungry.”
“This bond is extremely inconvenient.”
“Agreed,” he said, though his slight smile suggested otherwise. “But useful for making sure you actually eat. You skipped breakfast.”
“I had tea and pastries.”
“That’s not breakfast.”
“It’s absolutely breakfast!”
Lord Theron coughed, badly hiding laughter. Lyssa beamed. And from across the room, Queen Seraphine watched with an expression that was far too knowing.
“Children,” a new voice said, warm and amused. “Perhaps we should save the domestic dispute for after we’ve at least served the first course?”
A man entered—and even if Freya hadn’t felt the sheer power rolling off him, she would have known he was the Dragon King. He had Lysander’s height and Lyssa’s easy charm, with silver-streaked black hair and eyes that glowed with ancient magic. King Aldric Drakemyr, if she remembered correctly from the name bible Lyssa had rattled off earlier.
“Father,” Lysander said, inclining his head.
“Lysander.” The King’s gaze shifted to Freya, and she felt assessed in a way that made her spine straighten. “So this is the young woman who’s caused such excitement. Lady Freya Thornwood, I presume?”
“Your Majesty.” Freya curtseyed, years of noble training taking over. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Hospitality implies you had a choice in coming here.” His eyes glinted with humor. “Let’s call it what it is—my son kidnapped you, and now we’re all trying to make the best of a diplomatic disaster.”
“Father—” Lysander started.
“Oh, I approve.” King Aldric crossed to Freya, studying her with the intensity of a predator. “Anyone who can call my son out for his nonsense is welcome in my court. He needs someone who won’t let him brood dramatically in towers for centuries.”
“I don’t brood,” Lysander muttered.
“You absolutely brood,” Theron said cheerfully. “Remember the Incident of 1847? Three months of brooding. Epic brooding.”
“We don’t talk about 1847.”
“We’re definitely talking about 1847 now—”
“Gentlemen.” Queen Seraphine’s voice cut through the banter. “Let’s sit. I’m sure Lady Freya would like to eat something more substantial than tea and pastries.”
They moved to the table, and Freya found herself seated between Lyssa and Lysander—whether by design or accident, she wasn’t sure. The King and Queen took the heads of the table, with Theron across from her, grinning like this was the best entertainment he’d had in years.
Servants appeared with the first course—some kind of soup that shimmered with what might have been actual starlight. Freya stared at it suspiciously.
“It’s safe for humans,” Lyssa assured her. “We made sure everything tonight is non-magical. Well, mostly non-magical. Some things here are just inherently magical, but it won’t hurt you.”
“Comforting,” Freya murmured, taking a cautious sip. It tasted like spring and sunshine and something she couldn’t identify. Delicious, if terrifying.
“So,” King Aldric said conversationally, “tell us about yourself, Lady Freya. My son has been rather focused on the ‘she’s my mate’ aspect and less on the ‘getting to know her as a person’ aspect.”
“There wasn’t much time between scenting her and the wedding,” Lysander said defensively.
“Two weeks,” Theron pointed out. “You had two weeks and chose to spend them planning a cathedral crash instead of, say, introducing yourself properly.”
“The wedding was in two weeks! I couldn’t let her marry him!”
“You could have talked to her.”
“She was closely guarded! Viktor barely let her out of his sight!”
“And whose fault is that?” Queen Seraphine’s voice was mild, but Freya caught the rebuke. “You recognize your mate at a diplomatic function, spend two weeks stalking her from the shadows instead of approaching her properly, then crash her wedding like some kind of fairy tale villain. Really, Lysander.”
“I’m not the villain,” Lysander protested. “Viktor was the villain!”
“You’re both villains,” Freya said before she could stop herself. Silence fell. She looked up to find everyone staring at her. “I mean—Prince Viktor was cruel and possessive. But Prince Lysander did literally kidnap me. So from my perspective, you’re both problematic. One is just significantly more attractive and hasn’t threatened to hurt me yet.”
Theron choked on his wine. Lyssa’s eyes went wide with delight. The King and Queen exchanged a look that suggested they were desperately trying not to laugh.
Lysander stared at her. “You think I’m attractive?”
“That’s what you took from that statement?”
“You think I’m significantly more attractive than Viktor.”
“I think you’re significantly more concerning that that’s your focus right now.”
“I’m just saying, the ‘significantly more attractive’ part is noted and appreciated—”
“Lysander,” his mother said, “stop embarrassing yourself.”
But through the bond, Freya felt his satisfaction. He was pleased she’d called him attractive. Absurdly pleased. His dragon was practically preening.
Men, she thought. Even dragon princes are impossible.
The dinner continued, conversation flowing easier than Freya expected. Lyssa asked about human customs with genuine curiosity. Theron shared embarrassing stories about Lysander’s childhood—apparently dragon children were just as chaotic as human ones, but with more accidental fire. The King and Queen asked careful questions about her family, her interests, what she’d hoped for before her life had been upended.
No one mentioned the mate bond directly, but it hung over everything like a beautiful, terrifying possibility.
Freya was almost relaxed—almost convinced this might be okay—when the dining hall doors burst open.
A guard rushed in, breathing hard. “Your Majesties. A messenger from the human kingdoms. He demands an audience.”
The temperature in the room dropped. Lysander’s hand clenched on the table, and through the bond, Freya felt his dragon rise to the surface. Protective. Possessive. Ready to fight.
“Send him in,” King Aldric said calmly.
The messenger who entered wore Viktor’s colors—crimson and gold. His face was pale, probably from being escorted through a palace full of dragons, but he stood straight and spoke clearly.
“I bring a message from Prince Viktor of the Northern Kingdom.” He unrolled a scroll. “Return Lady Freya Thornwood immediately, and we may yet avoid war. Keep her, and the human kingdoms will unite against the dragon courts. You have three days to comply, or face the consequences of your prince’s crime.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Freya’s heart hammered. War. Because of her. Because Lysander had saved her—kidnapped her—whatever they were calling it. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people would die because a dragon prince couldn’t let his fated mate marry someone else.
“Crime?” Lysander’s voice came out as a growl. “The crime is Viktor thinking he could keep her. She’s my mate. Ancient law supersedes your pathetic treaties.”
“Ancient law means nothing to humans,” the messenger said, though he took a step back from Lysander’s fury. “Prince Viktor was legally bound to Lady Freya through marriage contract. You violated that contract and kidnapped a noble from her own wedding. The law is clear.”
“The law is irrelevant.” Lysander stood, and suddenly he seemed bigger, more dangerous. “She’s mine. I’m not returning her.”
“Then there will be war.”
Queen Seraphine raised a hand, and magic rippled through the room—a reminder of exactly how much power the dragons held. “We do not negotiate with threats, messenger. Tell your prince that Lady Freya is a guest in our court. She’s free to leave whenever she wishes. But we will not return her at his command.”
The messenger’s jaw tightened. “So you choose war.”
“We choose to honor the lady’s choice,” King Aldric said. “Which is more than your prince ever did.”
“You have three days.” The messenger bowed—barely—and turned to leave. At the door, he looked back at Freya. “My lady, Prince Viktor bids me tell you that he’s coming for you. Whether you want to be saved or not.”
Then he was gone, leaving chaos in his wake.
Freya couldn’t breathe. Through the bond, she felt Lysander’s rage, his fear, his absolute determination not to let Viktor near her. But underneath all that was guilt—the same guilt churning in her own stomach.
“This is my fault,” she whispered.
“No.” Lysander was beside her instantly. “This is Viktor’s fault for being a monster, and my fault for not handling it better. But it’s not yours, Freya. None of this is yours.”
“People are going to die.” She looked up at him, horror crawling up her throat. “Because you kidnapped me. Because I didn’t fight hard enough to stop you. Because—”
“Because Viktor is a prideful tyrant who can’t stand losing,” Queen Seraphine said firmly. “Child, this war has been brewing for decades. You’re merely the excuse, not the cause.”
But Freya barely heard her. All she could think about was soldiers dying, kingdoms burning, families destroyed—all because a dragon prince had claimed her as his fated mate.
Through the bond, she felt Lysander’s anguish. He knew what she was thinking. Knew she was already trying to figure out how to stop this.
And he knew what her solution would be.
“No,” he said fiercely. “Don’t even think it.”
“Three days,” she said numbly. “We have three days to figure this out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out. I’m not giving you back to him.”
“Even if it means war?”
“Even then.” His silver eyes blazed. “I’ll burn the world before I let him have you.”
Freya looked around the table—at Lyssa’s worried face, at Theron’s grim expression, at the King and Queen’s carefully neutral masks. A family about to go to war. A kingdom about to face destruction.
Because of her.
“May I be excused?” she asked quietly.
She didn’t wait for permission before standing and walking away, Lysander’s desperate presence following her through the bond even as she fled the dining hall.
Behind her, she heard Lyssa say softly, “She’s going to try to leave, isn’t she?”
And Lysander’s anguished response: “Yes. And I can’t let her.”
Freya kept walking, the weight of impossible choices crushing down on her shoulders.
Three days.
Three days to save a kingdom.
Or surrender herself to a monster.
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