Chapter 3
MATTY
The witch burns like a star through the night, hot and bright. She writhes in a feverish fit, setting everything aflame, and I hold her in my arms, shielding us both from the worst of the blaze. I wait until she sputters out completely, her face finally settling into the peaceful repose of sleep.
Placing her gently on the stone floor of the training dome, I study the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose and soft cheeks, wanting to touch the dark circle marking the pointed ridge that rises from the indent in her upper lip.
I curl my claws into a fist and resist the temptation. Fate has delivered my mate to me, and I must ensure that she recovers from the conditions she suffered at her Academy.
It’s my duty.
My heart lit up the moment I opened the Royal Chest and caught her scent, our bond snapping into place almost immediately. That joy dimmed rapidly, though, when I saw the sheer desperation on her face.
She must have endured something unimaginable to have thrown herself at my feet like she did. And the way she reacted to fire—I’ve never seen a witch burn with such intensity.
Once I’m sure she’s out of danger, I trudge out into the snow, letting the cold wind whip some of my fury away as I sneak out under the cover of night and race up to the castle to grab a plate from the kitchen.
I take the long way, avoiding anyone who might try to ask questions about the scene in my throne room.
Right now, my top priority is making my fire witch—my Brigid—happy.
She stirs in her silky cocoon as I reenter the training dome.
Her eyes blink open at the sound of the door latching behind me, staring at the metal bars and trapezes hanging from the curved ceiling.
She attempts to move her arms, but her limbs are restricted by the silvery fabric I wrapped her in when she was burning.
“What the—ahh!” She flails about in vain, flopping over on her side to face me. Her jade eyes widen in recognition, her body relaxing as she seems to remember where she is and how she got here.
“Hello, little hellcat.” I step closer and place the food tray down beside her. “I’m so happy to see you’re feeling better.”
“I am feeling better,” she says, as if she can’t believe it. “Except for the fact that you’ve got me all tied up here. Are you planning on keeping me as your captive?”
Her fists create two lumps beneath her wrap as she punches at it, a crease forming between her reddish-brown eyebrows. I grin, which only causes her frown to deepen, but I can’t help it. She’s adorable.
“Well, you did say I could do anything.” I crouch behind the tray. “But no, you’re free to come and go as you please. I only wrapped you up to protect your modesty.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says, her voice infused with mild sarcasm. “I’m sure that waking up naked in a torture chamber would’ve been slightly more alarming than waking up in a torture chamber, fully covered, with my arms and legs bound.”
“It’s not a torture chamber.” I gesture to the metal obstacles jutting from the walls.
“It’s my training dome. I can practice breathing fire and landing here without causing any real damage.
” I hook a claw beneath the edge of her makeshift sleeping bag.
“And Mortellian mothsilk becomes quite pliable once you stop struggling against it. The fabric is enchanted to suit your personal needs.”
The weavers of Mortellia spin their spells into each thread, making the cloth useful for a variety of purposes. My own outfit is made from it—fashioned into a tunic that fits around my wings and a pair of leggings.
“Mortellian mothsilk?" She sits upright, her arms still strapped tight to her body. “That’s one of the most expensive materials in the realm! You wouldn’t waste it on a random witch you just met.”
My poor mate. She’s still recovering, but soon she’ll understand that I’ll make sure she’s comfortable here. I’m usually meticulous with my territory’s budget, but with her, I’ll spare no expense.
“Mortellian mothsilk is one of the only fabrics that can withstand the heat of a fire flooding session. Doesn’t your coven keep it stocked at the Academy?”
“No,” she says. “What’s fire flooding?”
“Therapeutic exposure to your element to balance your system,” I answer, waiting for her to catch on to what I’m saying, but her face stays fixed in a blank stare. “Perhaps it’s called something else in the Witchlands?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve never heard of that method.”
“That’s strange. How did Headmistress Maven help you to control your outbursts while you were learning?” I probe, cold dread wisping through my veins as Brigid pales.
“I won’t lie to you. I caused a large fire about fifteen years ago, when I was fourteen,” she says, her voice strained. The cocoon tightens around her shoulders in response to her anxiety. “I’ve been spell-blocked from using my magic ever since.”
My ears ring as I process what she’s saying.
The fucking Shadowthorne Coven has no business running an Academy. Headmistress Maven might not have harmed Brigid physically, but repressing a witch’s magic is a special kind of torture. It’s mental and spiritual cruelty.
“I understand if you want to send me back to the Witchlands,” she continues, calling me back from my angry daze.
“I tried to be upfront with you, but once I felt the fire calling to my magic, I couldn’t tame it.
” Her eyes close tightly. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Your Majesty.
I promise I didn’t come here as an enemy. ”
I have the strongest urge to set everything on fire again. I want to fly into the Witchlands and claim revenge on her behalf, ruin the Headmistress’ Solstice vacation. She deserves it after forcing my mate to spend more than half of her life with a broken spirit.
One day…I promise myself. One day I’ll take care of Maven. But for now, I need to focus on helping Brigid feel whole again.
“No, you didn’t.” I rake my claws through her hair, stroking it away from her face. “Deep in your heart, you knew to come find me.”
She cracks her eyes open, her wet lashes sticking together. “You’re not sending me back?”
“To the ones who did this to you?” Noticing how she flinches at my low growl, I soften my voice to say, “I would never.”
She loosens a sigh. “Maybe my intuition did lead me here. I’ve read that you’re a kind, reasonable queen, and that you love—”
“What do I love?” I tease as a red flush spreads across her freckled cheeks. I know damn well what the gossip columns say about me.
“It’s not important. It’s just tittle-tattle.”
“Ah, but my cousin and I enjoy reading The Daily Bard with our morning tea. It can be rather amusing.” I drop my head back against the wall. “So tell me, what did you read that gave you the idea to tie yourself up in a pretty red bow and send yourself to me?”
She chews on her lower lip, her blush deepening. “I’ve read that you’re rather fond of women.”
“Yes, and?”
“You’re beloved by your people, and most admire your rebellious nature, but the noble families worry that you might buck the tradition of naming a mate during your first year as a monarch.”
“That’s true. They’re all gathering at the castle as we speak, waiting for me to make an announcement at the ball tomorrow evening.” I can’t believe she showed up just when I’d given up on one of my biggest dreams. “You have impeccable timing.”
Her lips twitch into a shy smile. “I figured you were going through a stressful time and that I could provide some comfort.”
“What a lovely idea, but you should know that I’ve been peckish with my courtships for good reason, sampling my way across the territory because I’m terrified I’ll miss out on the love fate intended for me.
” I lean in closer to breathe her in, getting drunk on the fiery sweet scent radiating from her skin.
“The columns have it all wrong—I’m not a rakess, but a romantic. ”
Our gazes lock, and her lips part as the mate bond thrums between us, a vibrating string drawing us nearer. Her chin tilts up, and mine angles down. Our mouths are mere inches apart when a raspberry bubbles from her lips, snapping the tension.
“Spoken like a true rakess,” she giggles. “Whew. You almost had me there.”
She blows a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. The mothsilk is still tight around her shoulders, which means she doesn’t feel comfortable around me yet.
I reel back, perplexed. “Didn’t you dream of meeting your fated mate when you were a young witchling?”
I know true mates are rare, but I thought she would understand my desire to find mine. I shake that thought away, recognizing my privilege. Given her circumstances, she might not have had time to fantasize the way that I did.
“Um. I think that might be a dragon thing.” She bites her lips together. “How does that work, anyway? Do you lay eyes on each other and know you’re meant to be together?”
“Something like that,” I wheeze out on a strained breath, her statement knocking the wind out of me.
Are witches truly exempt from the whims of fate? I make a mental note to consult with my cousin on the topic. He’s had a few interactions with the Riverbend Coven.
“I’m not sure I believe that kind of love exists.
I mean, it seems a little too convenient, doesn’t it?
Wouldn’t it be better to woo each other the old-fashioned way and prove you really want to be together?
” she chirps while I’m undergoing a mini existential crisis, questioning everything I’ve ever believed in.
Perhaps she notices my deflated look because she adds, “I suppose fated love would be nice, though, so I understand why you’d hope to find it.
Sorry to hear your time is almost up, but who knows—maybe tomorrow you’ll lock eyes with someone who gives you the warm fuzzies! ”
“The warm fuzzies,” I echo, her words rekindling my hope. “How can I give you those?”
“Huh?”