Whoever you are—Matt, Bebe, delusional stalker, or some creep who thinks he can dictate my fate—this is your final warning.
Cease and desist,
~Danika Starbourne
His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Orion of Frosthelm
The Crystal Keep, Celestial Terrace 1
Capital Province, Frosthelm Prime
Frosthelm Galaxy – Quadrant 7, Sector V
Danika,
This Matt you speak of sounds like an absolute degenerate. What kind of man takes a mate and then fails to satisfy her? A disgraceful excuse for a male, clearly unworthy of the title of consort. If you had been mine from the start, you would not know a single day without pleasure. But that is neither here nor there.
What matters is that you accept the bond.
Once you do, Matt—along with every other insignificant figure from your past—will fade from your thoughts. You will not waste another moment on men who did not deserve you. There will be no other men, Danika. Not in memory, not in mind, not in body. There will only be me.
I know how to treat my bride—on the throne and in our bed.
Let us not waste time resisting what is inevitable. You belong to me, as I belong to you. Accept the bond, and I will show you.
* * *
Orion Thalos
Crown Prince of Frosthelm
Your Fated Mate
Liberty Vega
1473 Bellevue Avenue, Apt. 2B
Los Angeles, CA 90026
Dani, my sweet summer child and abductee-in-the-making best friend,
Okay. I’ve read the “evidence” you sent me. I fully expected to read some unhinged, handwritten nonsense that would scream “please file a restraining order immediately.” And don’t get me wrong, the possessiveness? The commanding tone? The whole “accept our fated bond or else” thing? Yeah, massive red flags. However.
There’s just one tiny problem.
This paper? Is not paper. I don’t know what it is, but I bind books for a living, and I have never seen a material like this. It’s too smooth, too weighty. And the ink? It’s not sitting on the surface. It’s like it’s woven into the fibers.
Also, explain to me how these letters have no stamps. No postmarks. No return address. So either this man is personally hand-delivering them to your mailbox like the psycho you’re accusing him of being, or your mailbox is, in fact, an otherworldly portal.
Honestly? I’m choosing to believe in the portal option because it’s way more fun.
Now real talk. Have you actually staked out the mailbox? Sat by the window? Watched it at night? Because you should. You know how much I love being right, and if you catch some guy in a cloak materializing outside your cabin to shove interdimensional love letters into your mailbox, I want to be the first to say “I told you so.”
I’m gonna put in for some time off work and come up there. I cannot, in good conscience, let you be either abducted by a billionaire stalker who has invented new paper and ink—cause, hot!—or married off to an extraterrestrial prince without getting front-row seats to the drama.
Start chilling the wine, babe. We are investigating this.
If he is an alien and he’s hot, I call dibs now. Because if he’s rich, dominant, and literally out of this world? Yeah, I will have to fight you for him.
