Then the sound of a car engine cuts through the moment like a blade. She jerks back, her hand falling away from my face, and losing contact hits me like a physical jolt. A delivery truck is turning into her driveway, the driver probably bringing packages for the holidays.
Reality crashes back over us both. She’s human, with a human life and human responsibilities. And I’m a creature of winter and shadow who has no business standing in her garden, making promises I might not keep.
“I have to go,” I say, the words scraping my throat raw.
“Aelin—” She reaches for me, but I’m already stepping back, already calling the shift.
“Twenty-one days,” I repeat, and then I’m running, four-legged and desperate, putting distance between us before I do something we’ll both regret.
But even as I flee into the deep woods, I can still feel the warmth of her touch on my skin, still hear the echo of her words.
You feel like coming home.
The bond purrs its satisfaction, patient and implacable as winter itself. Twenty-one days until the Solstice. Twenty-one days to decide if I’m brave enough to claim the one thing I’ve always wanted and never thought I could have.
Twenty-one days to discover if love really can conquer duty.
Or if it will destroy us both in the trying.
CHAPTER 5
JESSA
Twenty-one days.
The number echoes in my head as I pace my cabin, unable to sit still, unable to think about anything else. Twenty-one days until the Solstice. Until the bond either completes itself or burns us both to ash.
His words, spoken in that rough, desperate voice that made my knees weak. The way he’d looked at me when he said it—like I was his salvation and his destruction rolled into one impossible package.
I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the phantom warmth of his mouth against my palm. The memory of that simple contact sends heat spiraling through me, pooling low in my belly in ways that have nothing to do with the wine I abandoned hours ago.
You feel like coming home.
Had I really said that? Standing there in the snow, looking into those impossible golden eyes, I’d let the truth slip out like a confession. And the way he’d reacted—that sharp intake ofbreath, the way his whole body had gone rigid with want—told me he felt it, too.
This pull between us. This inexorable rightness that defies every rational thought in my head.
The Yulebond, he’d called it. A mating bond that ties fae to their destined partners. Ancient magic that cannot be broken or denied.
I should be terrified. Any sane person would run right now, pack up their life and flee to the other side of the country. Instead, I pull on my boots and heavy coat, driven by an instinct I don’t fully understand.
I need to find him.
The thought should alarm me, but it doesn’t. If anything, it feels inevitable. Like everything that’s happened since that first night on the forest road has been leading to this moment.
The cold hits me like a slap as I step outside, but I barely feel the icy chill. My skin burns with awareness, every nerve ending hyper-sensitive to the magic that hums in the air around my cabin. He’s been here recently—I can feel the lingering traces of his presence like fingerprints on my soul.
I follow the pull deeper into the forest, my feet finding paths I didn’t know existed. The snow crunches beneath my boots, each step echoing in the stillness like a heartbeat. Above me, the bare branches form a cathedral of shadows, and moonlight filters through in shafts of silver that make everything look ethereal, otherworldly.
Like a fairy tale.
The thought makes me laugh, a breathless sound that fogs in the cold air. Two weeks ago, I was a practical woman with a practical life, focused on wounded animals and monthly budgets. Now I’m wandering through a winter forest, chasing after a fae king who may or may not be my destined mate.
If someone had told me this would be my life, I’d have recommended therapy.
But as I move deeper into the woods, following instincts I can’t name, I realize I’ve never felt more myself. More alive. The part of me that’s always felt separate from the world, that’s never quite fit anywhere, recognizes this place. This magic.
Him.
