The rest of the day passes in a haze of routine tasks punctuated by moments of electric awareness. Every time I look out awindow, I expect to see golden eyes watching from the tree line. Every shadow that moves wrong makes my pulse skip. But there’s nothing concrete, nothing I can point to and say, “there, that’s proof.”
Just the growing certainty that I’m no longer alone.
By the time I lock up and head home, the sun is setting and the temperature is dropping fast. I drive the forest road with heightened awareness, scanning the shadows for any sign of my mysterious admirer. But the woods remain still and quiet, giving up none of their secrets.
At home, I heat leftover soup and settle in front of my laptop, intending to catch up on paperwork. Instead, I find myself typing search terms that would have seemed ridiculous a week ago.
Forest spirits North AmericaShape-shifting mythology CelticAnimal courtship displays unusualSupernatural encounters real experiences
The internet, as always, is a mixed bag of scholarly articles and conspiracy theory websites. But buried in the academic papers and folklore collections, I find threads that make my pulse quicken.
Stories of forest guardians who take animal form. Legends of ancient spirits bound to specific territories, protective and powerful and choosy about who they reveal themselves to. Tales of courtship rituals that span weeks or months, involving gifts and signs and slow, careful approaches designed to win trust rather than demand it.
And in several cultures, specific mentions of winter spirits. Beings associated with snow and starlight and the longest nightsof the year, who emerge during the solstice season to find their mates among mortals.
I close the laptop with shaking hands. This is crazy. I’m sitting in my kitchen, researching supernatural boyfriend theories like they’re viable dating options. Next, I’ll be buying crystals and consulting tarot cards and telling people my chakras are aligned.
But as I rinse my soup bowl and prepare for bed, I catch myself moving with extra care, hyperaware of being observed. I brush my teeth more thoroughly than usual, choose pajamas that are cute rather than just comfortable, and linger at each window as I pull the curtains closed.
Not because I’m afraid of what might be watching.
Because I’m hoping something is.
That night, the dreams come again. More vivid this time, more detailed. He speaks to me in a language I don’t recognize but somehow understand, tells me stories of winter courts and ancient magic and bonds that transcend the boundaries between worlds.
When I wake, there’s a new pattern of frost on my bedroom window—not antlers this time, but something that looks almost like a heart, if hearts were made of ice crystals and starlight.
And pressed into the snow outside my front door, I find a single white rose, its petals unmarked by frost despite the freezing temperature.
I pick it up with trembling fingers, and it’s warm to the touch, as if it’s been cradled against someone’s skin. There’s no card, noexplanation, just the impossible flower and the lingering scent of pine and winter magic.
Standing there in my bathrobe and slippers, holding a rose that shouldn’t exist, I make a decision that will change everything.
I’m done pretending this isn’t happening. Done trying to rationalize away the magic creeping into my life like morning mist through the trees.
Whatever is out there—whoever is leaving me these gifts and dreams and moments of impossible beauty—I want to meet them properly. Want to understand what’s growing between us with each passing day.
Want to stop being afraid of the extraordinary and start embracing it instead.
The rose pulses warm in my palm, and I lift it to inhale its impossible fragrance. Somewhere in the forest, I know golden eyes are watching, waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I smile and press the flower against my heart, sending a message without words.
I’m ready.
CHAPTER 4
AELIN
She touchesthe rose to her heart, and I nearly lose my mind.
From my perch in the ancient oak that overlooks her cabin, I watch through the pre-dawn gloom as she cradles my gift against her chest before bringing it to her mouth, breathing in its scent with an expression of wonder that makes something hot and possessive unfurl in my chest. The bond pulses between us like a second heartbeat, stronger now, more insistent. Each day that passes without claiming her feels like a small death.
I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be watching her morning routines like some lovesick fool, tracking her movements with the dedication of a hunter stalking prey. But I can’t seem to stay away. The Yulebond has its claws in me now, deep and merciless, and every instinct I possess screams at me to go to her, to mark her, to make her understand she belongs to me whether or not she knows it.
But she’s human. Fragile. Mortal in ways that terrify me.
And she deserves better than a monster who can barely control his hunger.
