Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~12 min read
Freya woke to screaming.
Her own screaming, to be specific, because there was a dead sheep on her balcony.
A whole, entire, very deceased sheep. With glassy eyes and everything.
She scrambled backward in bed, heart hammering, as Mira rushed in looking equally horrified.
“My lady! What—oh gods, is that a sheep?”
“It’s definitely a sheep!” Freya pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her racing heart. “Why is there a dead sheep on my balcony?!”
Through the bond, she felt a surge of confusion. Then concern. Then—was that pride?
A shadow passed over her window, and a massive black dragon landed on the balcony with surprising grace for something so large. Lysander shifted to human form—someone had clearly stashed robes in strategic locations because he was actually clothed this time—and looked between Freya and the sheep with obvious bewilderment.
“You screamed,” he said. “Are you hurt?”
“Am I—there’s a DEAD ANIMAL on my balcony!”
“Yes.” He gestured to it proudly. “I brought you breakfast.”
Silence.
Mira made a strangled sound.
Freya stared at him. “You brought me… a sheep.”
“A fresh sheep. I hunted it myself this morning.” His silver eyes were earnest, like he genuinely expected her to be pleased. “It’s traditional. When a dragon courts his mate, he provides food. Demonstrates he can be a good provider.”
“By leaving a corpse on my balcony.”
“It’s not a corpse, it’s food.” He paused. “Is it not adequate? I can bring something larger. A deer, perhaps. Or a wild boar—”
“NO!” Freya held up her hands. “No more dead animals! Please!”
Through the bond, she felt his confusion deepen. He’d genuinely thought this was a good idea. This was dragon courtship. And he was trying so hard to prove himself worthy.
It was horrifying and somehow endearing at the same time.
“I don’t understand,” Lysander said slowly. “This is how dragons show interest. Bringing food to a potential mate demonstrates strength, hunting skills, the ability to provide—”
“I’m not a dragon!” Freya climbed out of bed, careful to keep distance between herself and the sheep. “I’m human! We don’t… we don’t do sheep!”
“What do humans do?”
“Flowers! Poetry! Romantic conversations!” She gestured helplessly. “Not livestock delivery!”
Lysander looked at the sheep, then back at her. “But flowers aren’t practical. You can’t eat flowers.”
“That’s not the point—”
“Brother.” Princess Lyssa’s voice came from the doorway, dripping with barely contained laughter. “What did you do?”
“I brought her breakfast,” Lysander said defensively. “Like Father brings Mother.”
“Mother is a DRAGON.” Lyssa swept into the room, took one look at the sheep, and burst out laughing. “Oh, Lysander. You beautiful disaster. She’s human. Humans don’t want dead sheep. Try flowers. Or chocolates. Or literally anything that isn’t a carcass.”
Lysander’s expression was somewhere between offended and mortified. Through the bond, Freya felt his embarrassment crash over her in waves. He’d been trying to court her properly. By dragon standards, this was romantic.
By human standards, it was a nightmare.
“I’ll… remove the sheep,” he said stiffly.
“Please do,” Freya managed.
He shifted back to dragon form, grabbed the sheep in his claws, and flew off without another word. Through the bond, she felt his wounded pride, his confusion about human customs, and underneath it all, a desperate desire to do this right.
Lyssa was still laughing. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you. Dragon courtship is… different.”
“That’s one word for it.” Freya sank into a chair, adrenaline still making her hands shake. “Does he seriously think bringing me dead animals is romantic?”
“For dragons, it is. It shows he can hunt, provide, protect. That he’s strong enough to care for his mate.” Lyssa’s expression softened. “He’s trying, Freya. He’s just terrible at it.”
“I noticed.”
“Give him another chance? I’ll help him understand human courtship. It’ll be entertaining if nothing else.”
Freya looked toward where Lysander had flown off, feeling his distress through the bond. He was mortified. Genuinely believed he’d ruined everything with his dead sheep disaster.
“Fine,” she sighed. “But no more livestock.”
Lyssa grinned. “I make no promises.”
Over the next three days, Lysander’s courtship attempts were a study in well-intentioned disasters.
Day one, he brought flowers. Approximately three hundred flowers. He’d apparently taken “bring flowers” literally and stripped an entire garden, presenting her with an avalanche of blooms that buried her sitting room.
“Too much?” he asked, standing in the doorway.
Freya, half-buried in roses and lilies, could only nod.
Day two, he tried poetry. Except dragon poetry apparently involved a lot of metaphors about fire and blood and eternal devotion that sounded vaguely threatening when translated to Common.
“Your eyes burn like the heart of a star, consuming all in their path?” Freya read from the scroll he’d left. “Lysander, this sounds like I’m going to murder someone.”
“It’s romantic!” he protested. “Stars are powerful, beautiful—”
“It sounds like arson.”
Through the bond, she felt his frustration. Human courtship was apparently much harder than dragon courtship.
Day three, Lord Theron intervened.
“Mate,” he said, cornering Lysander in the training yard, “you’re a disaster. Stop trying so hard. Just talk to her.”
“I don’t know what to say!”
“Try asking what she likes. What she enjoys. Her interests.” Theron clapped him on the shoulder. “You know, actual conversation. Novel concept.”
Lysander looked skeptical but desperate enough to try anything.
Which was how Freya found herself in the palace library that evening, Lysander standing awkwardly in the doorway like he was afraid to come closer.
“May I join you?” he asked formally.
She looked up from her book. “It’s your library.”
“But it’s your space right now. I don’t want to intrude.” He hesitated. “I know my courting attempts have been… unsuccessful.”
“That’s a diplomatic way of putting it.” She closed her book. “The sheep was traumatic. The flower avalanche was excessive. And the poetry was borderline threatening.”
“I’m aware.” He moved into the library, careful to maintain distance. “Dragon courtship doesn’t translate well to humans.”
“Not particularly, no.”
They stood in awkward silence. Through the bond, Freya felt his nervousness, his desperate desire to fix this, his absolute certainty that he was going to mess it up again.
It was strangely endearing.
“What are you reading?” he asked finally.
She held up the book. “History of the Drakemyr Court. Trying to understand where I am.”
His expression brightened. “That’s one of my favorites. Did you get to the part about the Great Dragon War of 1342?”
“Not yet. I’m still on the founding of the court.”
“The founding is fascinating, but the war—” He stopped himself. “Sorry. I’m probably boring you.”
“You’re not.” And to her surprise, she meant it. “Tell me about the war.”
For the first time since the awkward courting began, Lysander relaxed. He settled into a chair across from her—not too close, respecting her space—and started talking about dragon history. His enthusiasm was infectious, his knowledge extensive. He spoke about battles and politics and dragon lords like he’d been there.
Because he probably had been there. He was over a century old.
“You were alive during this,” she realized. “During the war.”
“I was young. Barely twenty. But yes, I remember it.” His expression grew distant. “It was brutal. Dragons killing dragons over territory disputes. The fae got involved, made everything worse. We almost destroyed ourselves.”
“What stopped it?”
“The mate bonds.” He met her eyes. “Dragons who found their fated mates stopped fighting. Because suddenly they had something more important than territory or pride. They had someone worth living for.” His voice dropped. “That’s why the bond is sacred to us. It’s not just about love or magic. It’s about remembering what matters.”
Freya’s chest tightened. Through the bond, she felt his sincerity, his bone-deep belief in what he was saying.
“Is that why you couldn’t leave me?” she asked quietly. “At my wedding. Why you had to take me.”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “The moment I scented you, nothing else mattered. Not treaties, not diplomacy, not even common sense. Just you.” He leaned forward. “I know I handled it terribly. The kidnapping, the dead sheep, all of it. But Freya, I’m trying. I’m trying to understand how to be what you need.”
“What if I don’t know what I need?”
“Then we figure it out together.” He gestured to the shelves surrounding them. “You like books. I have thousands of them. I’ve been collecting for over a century—it’s a dragon thing, hoarding. Most dragons hoard gold or jewels. I hoard books.”
Freya blinked. “You hoard books?”
“Every first edition I can find. Rare manuscripts. Ancient texts. Human novels, dragon histories, fae poetry—everything.” He stood, moving to a shelf. “This section is human literature. I have works from every major kingdom, dating back centuries.” He pulled down a book carefully. “First edition of ‘The Tales of Thornwood Forest.’ Only fifty copies made. This one’s number seven.”
“Thornwood,” Freya breathed. “That’s my family name.”
“I know. I noticed it after…” He trailed off. “After I brought you here. Seemed like fate.”
She stood, moving closer to examine the book. The leather binding was worn but cared for, the pages yellowed but intact. “This must be worth a fortune.”
“It’s priceless to me. All of them are.” He gestured to the surrounding shelves. “My hoard. My treasure. Everything I’ve collected over a century of waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“For someone to share it with.” His silver eyes were intense. “I have thousands of books, Freya. And no one to discuss them with. No one who understands why I keep first editions instead of gold. No one who—” He stopped, looking almost embarrassed.
Through the bond, she felt it. The loneliness. The decades of collecting beautiful things with no one to appreciate them. The hope that maybe, finally, he’d found someone who understood.
“I love books,” she admitted. “More than people, usually. Before all this, I’d spend entire days reading. Escaping into other worlds because my own was…” She gestured vaguely. “Suffocating.”
“What kind of books?”
“Everything. Romance, adventure, histories. Anything that took me somewhere else.”
Lysander’s expression transformed. “I have a section you’ll love. Human romance novels from the last three centuries. Some of them are terrible, but entertaining.” He started pulling books, enthusiasm overtaking his usual careful restraint. “This one’s about a pirate and a princess. Completely inaccurate about sailing but excellent dialogue. And this one—dragon romance, actually. Very dramatic. The dragon kidnaps his mate—”
“Art imitating life?” Freya couldn’t help the smile.
He paused, books in his arms, and gave her a sheepish look. “I may have gotten some ideas from fiction. In retrospect, not my best source material.”
“You based your courtship on romance novels?”
“I was desperate! I’ve never had a mate before! I didn’t know what to do!”
Freya laughed. She couldn’t help it. The image of this ancient, powerful dragon prince reading romance novels and thinking “yes, this is how courtship works” was absurd and charming and so earnest it made her chest ache.
Lysander froze, books still in his arms, staring at her.
Through the bond, she felt his wonder. His joy at making her laugh. His desperate hope that maybe, maybe he was doing something right.
“What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“You laughed.” His voice was soft. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you really laugh since I brought you here.”
“It was funny.”
“It was real.” He set the books down carefully. “That’s all I want, Freya. Real moments. Not performances or obligations. Just… us. Figuring each other out.”
They stood in the library, surrounded by thousands of books—his hoard, his treasure, his way of showing her who he was beyond the dragon and the desperation.
Through the bond, she felt something shift. The attraction had always been there, made worse by the magic connecting them. But this was different. This was genuine interest. Curiosity about who he was, what he valued, why a dragon prince hoarded books instead of gold.
She felt drawn to him in a way that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the vulnerability in his eyes when he’d admitted he was lonely.
Lysander must have felt it too, because his expression changed. Softened. His silver eyes darkened with something that made heat pool in her stomach.
“Freya,” he said quietly.
She looked away first, flustered. “Show me more of your collection?”
“Of course.” But his voice was rough, and through the bond, she felt his restraint. The way he was fighting the urge to close the distance between them. The way her attraction was amplifying his own until neither of them could tell where one feeling ended and the other began.
This was what the fated mate bond meant. Not just feeling each other’s emotions, but having them feed into each other, creating a cycle of connection that was terrifying and intoxicating in equal measure.
“Lysander?” she asked as he showed her a section of ancient dragon texts.
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For trying. Even if the sheep was horrifying.”
He smiled—real and genuine and devastating. “I’ll stick to books from now on.”
“Much better choice.”
They spent the rest of the evening in the library, talking about stories and histories and the things they’d both dreamed about in their moments of loneliness. And for the first time since being kidnapped by a dragon, Freya thought maybe—just maybe—this could work.
Not because the bond forced them together.
But because underneath the magic and the destiny, they might actually like each other.
And that was more terrifying than any mate bond could ever be.
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