Her eyes widen, and she turns in place, taking in the growth around her. The way her dark hair flows as she moves, how it frames her pale skin that seems to glow in the dim forest light, captivates me. She’s breathtaking, like the goddesses carved her from stardust.
I take a slow step closer, but not too close, I don’t want to frighten her. Not now. Not when she’s seeing the truth of our bond. “As you see,” I continue, “these roses are not a random choice. They are connected to you, to your soul. Only a mate can sense and create something so personal. This bond, though new and unfamiliar to you, is ancient. It’s deeper than either of us can understand, but it’s real.”
Her fingers brush the petals. Her touch is gentle, hesitant, as if she’s testing whether this moment is real. The roses sway under her fingertips, responding to her presence.
“You...” she starts, breathless and full of wonder. “You made them appear because you sensed them in me?”
“Yes, little human,” I confirm as gently as I can. “It’s part of the bond between mates. We connect with what is most precious to each other. These roses...” I gesture to the blooming flowers surrounding her. “They are my heart reaching out to yours. They are proof that we are bound together.” Soon, it will be myresponsibility and my honor to create a blue rose crown for her. Very, very soon.
For centuries, I’ve trained and led my people, each day pushing forward, every step driven by purpose. But no amount of respect earned could ever fill the hollow ache inside me. We are taught from birth that each of us has a mate, a soul connected with our own. To find one’s mate is to find the missing piece of your very being, to become whole in a way nothing else can ever achieve.
And now . . . she’s here.
Right in front of me. Real. Flesh and blood. I can scent her, feel her presence with every breath I take.
But joy and fear, they’re two sides of the same leaf, aren’t they? The bond is a force of nature to me, absolute. Yet what if she doesn’t feel it the same way? What if it’s onlymewho is consumed by it, by this instinct, this pull that cuts me to my core?
She’s human, and I’m vólkin. We come from two different worlds. How can I make her see that she’s the missing piece of my being? And I’m the missing piece of hers?
I must help her understand.
The beauty of the moment turns bitter as her expression changes, curiosity fading into something darker. “How dare you,” she snaps. Her chest rises and falls with each heavy breath, her hands gripping the fabric of her white sarafan. Her eyes blaze with fury. “You reach into my soul without permission and presume to call me your mate? Who do you think you are?”
Her words are sharper than any fang, but I don’t move. I can feel the heat of her anger, the fire burning inside her, and I understand. Of course she’s afraid. She’s human. She didn’t grow up with tales of bonds and mates woven into her every thought like I did. She knows nothing of the goddesses’ ways, or the destiny I’ve been waiting for my entire life. To her, this mustall feel like an invasion. Her world suddenly exposed to someone she’s never met. Even if I am hermate.
She takes a step back, then another. The distance between us grows, and my heart clenches at the sight of her retreating. I should have been more cautious, more patient. Her reaction is a reminder of the boundaries I must respect. I was too eager, too consumed by the bond I feel with her.
Her eyes meet mine one last time before she turns on her heel and bolts. The sight of her disappearing into the forest, her long, dark hair flowing behind her like a shadow, leaves an ache in my chest. But I don’t move to follow.
Not yet.
I let her run. Let her feel that she can escape. My cock throbs with every breath I take, as if her scent alone has chained me.
Because little does she know... I love the chase.
9
A VOW IN THE MIST
“Where love is torn by grief, and grief is sharpened by fear, hatred is born. And hatred, left to bloom, will always lead to war.”
—Láda Veléša, Goddess of Leadership and War
Noël
Idart away, weaving between the trees as branches claw at my face and arms, drawing thin lines of pain across my skin. It’s like the forest is resisting me.
The cold bites at my cheeks, my limbs burn, but none of it matters. I can’t stop. I have to keep moving. If I stop, I’ll fall apart, completely and utterly shatter into pieces that no one will ever bother to pick up.
The mist clings to the forest, smothering everything in its path. Damp leaves brush against my arms and droplets collect on my skin, but I hardly notice them. My thoughts are too tangled, my mind too heavy with everything that’s happened, everything I’ve lost, and now this—this vólkin, this creatureclaiming me as hismatelike I’m some object the goddesses handed over to him.
Anger roars through my veins, but it’s not enough to overcome the fear curling inside me. How dare he? How dare he look into my soul without permission, dredging up the deepest wound left by Mother’s death? The sight of those blue roses, her favorite flowers, was like a slap in the face. They werehers!
Mother... Why aren’t you here? Why did you leave me to face this by myself?
I stumble over a root and barely catch myself as I run. My head is still spinning from the smack Arnold’s friend gave me, and my vision swims for a second. I push it back, focusing on the pain in my legs, the stinging cuts on my arms, anything to keep myself grounded.
My lungs burn. My heart pounds so hard it drowns out the sound of my footsteps. But it doesn’t drown outhis. The snap of branches behind me grows louder. Closer. I know it’s him. It has to be the vólkin.
