Chapter 3 #2
"But there are complications," he continued, voice hardening.
"Caelus will demand your return. You're still technically his property—the trial isn't resolved.
And Davoren . . ." He paused, and through the bond I felt his fury, cold and deep as winter lakes.
"Davoren will call for my head. He also consider you his. "
"But I'm not—"
"He considers me guilty. The penalty is death, and all of the possessions of the guilty become those of the accuser." Sereis's jaw tightened. "He has a claim. The Council will have to decide, and they're not known for swift judgment. We could be facing years of legal battles, unless—"
"Unless?"
"Unless we seal the pact before they can intervene. Once you're mine by blood and magic, the other claims become secondary. Still valid, but secondary."
The political implications made my head spin. Three Dragon Masters, all with some claim to me. It sounded like something from the ridiculous romance novels the kitchen girls used to hide under their mattresses.
"None of that matters," Sereis said suddenly, standing with abrupt grace. The movement brought him close, close enough that I could feel the cold radiating from him like Davoren radiated heat. "Not Caelus, not Davoren, not the Council. None of it matters because you're here, you're mine, and I—"
The words seemed dragged from him, each one fighting past centuries of control.
"I love you."
The admission hung between us like frozen breath made visible. This ancient being, this power that had lived for millennia, loved me. Me. A servant girl sold for debts, worthless except for the mark that linked us.
The truth tore from my throat before I could stop it, raw and honest as winter wind: "I love you too."
His composure shattered completely. The surprise on his face—this lonely, immortal creature shocked by reciprocated feeling—broke something in my chest. He'd been prepared for rejection, for reluctance, for eventual acceptance.
But not for this immediate, absolute recognition of what sang between us.
"You don't know me," he whispered, and vulnerability made his voice young despite his centuries. "Two days, Mira. You've known me two days."
"I've known you my whole life," I said, and somehow it was true. "In dreams, in the frost patterns on winter windows. I just didn't know it was you I was seeing."
His hand rose to cup my cheek, and the touch sent frost patterns spiraling from the point of contact. Not cold but perfect, like coming home to a hearth after hours in the snow.
"Say it again," he commanded, and there was desperation in it.
"I love you," I repeated, and felt through the bond how the words affected him—centuries of control dissolving like snow in spring. "I love you, Sereis. I love you, Daddy."
The last word slipped out without thought, natural as breathing, and his eyes flashed silver-white. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees in an instant, frost spreading across every surface except where we touched.
"Tomorrow night," he said, voice rough with barely controlled need.
"Tomorrow night, you sign the pact, and I make you mine in every way the laws of magic and men recognize.
But tonight . . ." He pulled back, the effort visible in every line of his body.
"Tonight you rest. Your body needs to adjust to the bond before we seal it, or the binding could kill you. "
Kill me. Of course there was mortal danger. Why would this be any different from every other choice I'd been denied?
But looking at him, seeing the frost patterns we shared pulsing in synchronized rhythm, feeling the love that terrified us both with its intensity, I found I didn't care.
Tomorrow night, I would sign my soul away in blood and silver fire.
H e led me through corridors that folded in on themselves, where left turns somehow brought us right and doorways opened onto rooms we'd already passed, until we reached a set of double doors carved from what looked like captured moonlight.
They opened at his approach without touch, recognizing him in ways that had nothing to do with keys or locks.
"I've been preparing these chambers for . . . a very long time," he said, and I heard uncertainty in his voice for the first time since his love confession.
The first room stole what little breath I had left.
A bed dominated the space, but 'bed' seemed inadequate for what I was seeing.
It was carved from compressed starlight—I had no other words for the way it caught and held illumination, creating its own gentle glow that pulsed in rhythm with the frost patterns on my skin.
The posts twisted up toward a canopy of actual aurora borealis, somehow captured and contained, shifting between green and blue and purple in waves that made my eyes water with their beauty.
"The windows show truth rather than location," Sereis explained, gesturing to the wall of glass that revealed the dancing lights. "Tonight it shows the aurora because that's what your soul needs to see. Tomorrow it might show sunrise over summer meadows, or the deep peace of ocean floors."
Furniture that belonged in museums filled the space—a vanity carved from single piece of eternal ice that would never melt, chairs that adjusted their shape to whoever approached them, a wardrobe that already somehow contained clothes in my size despite no one knowing I'd be here.
But it was the other side of the chamber that stopped my heart.
A archway led to what was clearly meant to be a nursery—but not for an infant. Everything was scaled for an adult, but designed to invoke the safety and wonder of childhood. My eyes couldn't take it all in at once, each detail more impossibly perfect than the last.
Stuffed dragons filled shelves and surfaces, each one unique and beautiful.
Not the crude toys sold at market fairs, but works of art made from cloud-silk that felt like holding solidified dreams. One was silver with wings that sparkled like snow in moonlight.
Another was white as fresh powder with eyes made from actual sapphires that somehow looked kind rather than cold.
They ranged in size from something I could tuck in my pocket to ones large enough to curl around while sleeping.
"The books," I whispered, approaching a shelf that held volumes I recognized even at a distance.
Fairy tales from every culture, illustrated with pictures that moved.
I opened one at random and gasped—the princess in the story looked like me, down to the storm-gray eyes, and as I watched, she moved through her adventure in delicate watercolors that shifted and flowed across the page.
Another shelf held books in languages I didn't recognize but somehow understood through the bond—dragon stories, ancient myths, tales of ice and snow and love that transcended mortality.
Art supplies covered a low table, but these weren't normal paints and pencils.
The brushes were made from phoenix feathers that never wore out.
The paints were ground from minerals that captured light itself, creating colors that didn't exist in the normal spectrum.
Sketchbooks with pages that would never tear, that could hold memories as well as images.
In the corner sat a rocking chair that took my breath away.
Carved from single piece of eternal ice like the vanity, but this ice was warm to look at, inviting.
The cushions were white and pale blue, so soft my fingers sank in when I touched them.
It was sized perfectly—large enough for me to curl up in, but built in a way that suggested being held, being rocked, being safe.
Blankets draped over every surface, each one a different texture but all in shades of white and blue and silver. Some were weighted, designed to feel like being held. Others were so light they might have been woven from clouds. All of them whispered comfort, safety, home.
"If this isn't what you want," Sereis said quickly, and I heard centuries of uncertainty in those words.
"It can change. The room responds to desire.
I just thought—hoped—" His hands moved in an uncharacteristic gesture of nervousness.
"I've been adding things for centuries. Every time I'd see something that made me think 'she would love this,' even when I didn't know who 'she' was.
It might be too much, too presumptuous—"
I cut him off by picking up the nearest stuffed dragon—a small one, white with silver wings, that fit perfectly in my arms. The cloud-silk was softer than anything I'd ever felt, and when I pressed it to my chest, it seemed to pulse with warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with feeling held.
"It's perfect, Daddy."
The word slipped out natural as breathing, and the relief that transformed his face made my eyes burn with sudden tears.
He crossed to me in two strides, movements fluid with barely controlled emotion.
His hands cupped my face with such tenderness I thought I might shatter, and then he pressed his lips to my forehead in a kiss that felt like benediction, like blessing, like coming home.
I broke.
Tears I'd been holding for three years—since the moment my father signed the papers, since I'd understood I was currency, not daughter—poured out in ugly, wrenching sobs.
Sereis gathered me against him, careful not to crush the dragon I still clutched, and his arms were safety and strength and the promise that I'd never be sold again.
"My precious girl," he murmured against my hair, and through the bond I felt his own eyes burning. "My brave, perfect Little. You're safe now. You're home. You're mine, and I'm yours, and nothing will ever change that."