Chapter 102: Stranger in His Court
(GRIFFIN)
I give Maya, pacing my chambers like a caged animal as the hours crawl by. When the palace finally falls silent, I make my way to her cottage, moving like a shadow through the grounds.
I expect to find her outside, wrapped in her blankets under the stars. But the garden is empty, the grass undisturbed. Through the cottage window, I can see a faint light glowing in her bedroom.
She’s trying to sleep indoors.
I know what that ans: she’s deliberately avoiding , pushing herself to endure the confines of walls rather than risk encountering
in the open air. The knowledge aches deep in my chest.
I’m about to turn away, to give her the space she clearly wants, when I catch the sound—a sharp, ragged inhale, followed by another, and another. The shallow, panicked breathing of soone struggling for air.
For a mont, I go still. And then, through our fragile mate bond, I feel a sick fear that is not my own. In extrely tense situations, the fated bond between two unmarked mates can still project heightened emotions.
In an instant, I’m at her window. Without a second thought, I force it open and leap inside.
Maya is sitting bolt upright in her bed, knees drawn to her chest, one hand clutching at her throat as she gasps for breath.
Her eyes are wide and unfocused, her face pale with terror. "Maya," I say softly, moving to her side. "Maya, look at ."
Her gaze snaps to mine, recognition flickering through the fear. "Griffin," she manages between gasps. "I can’t—I can’t breathe—"
"Yes, you can," I tell her, keeping my voice calm even as my stomach churns with concern. "Focus on ." I sit on the edge of her bed, slowly and carefully, telegraphing each movent. "Can I touch you?"
She nods jerkily, and I take her hand, placing it against my chest where she can feel the steady rhythm of my heartbeat. "Breathe with ," I instruct gently. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Feel my breathing and try to match it." Gradually, her breaths slow and deepen. The wild panic in her eyes recedes, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
"How did you know?" she asks when she can speak normally again, her voice rough. "I felt it," I admit. "Your fear."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "The bond."
I nod, watching her carefully. "Yes."
She pulls her hand from mine and wraps her arms around herself. "Erik is the one who told ."
"I should have guessed." Of course, it was Erik. That explains why he looks so guilty these days.
"You should have told ," she says hoarsely, hurt and accusation threading through her voice. "From the beginning. You had no right to keep sothing like that from ."
"I know that now," I acknowledge quietly. "I was trying to protect you."
"From what? The truth?" She looks away, her profile sharp in the lamplight. "I had a right to know what was happening to . Why I felt so drawn to you. Why I—" She breaks off, shaking her head.
"Why you what?" I press gently.
She ets my eyes again, her gaze direct despite the vulnerability in it. "Why can’t I stop thinking about you. Why I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, even though most of the ti we’ve spent together was with you as a wolf. Why I—" She swallows hard. "Why do I feel safe with you when I haven’t felt safe with anyone in years?"
The raw honesty in her voice makes my chest ache.
"I should have told you," I repeat. "I was wrong not to. But I didn’t want you to feel trapped. I wanted you to choose , not feel forced into sothing because of a mystical connection you never asked for."
"And instead, you tricked
into your bed," she says bitterly.
I recoil as if struck. "No. Never. That night was your choice, Maya. The bond doesn’t compel desire; it recognizes it. What’s between us is real. It was real before either of us knew what it ant."
She studies , searching my face for truth. Whatever she finds there seems to settle sothing in her, because her shoulders relax slightly.
"I don’t know you," she says finally. "Not really. A few months of shared captivity, a few days of freedom, that’s not enough to build a life on. And now I’m supposed to, what? Beco your queen? Rule beside you? I’m human, Griffin. I don’t belong in your world."
"You belong with ," I say simply. "The rest is just details."
A short, disbelieving laugh escapes her. "Just details? The fact that your entire kingdom is going to hate ? That I know nothing about being a queen? You think I haven’t heard the rumors about , noticed the cold way the palace staff has begun to treat ?"
Fury burns in
at her last words. I am going to find out who is mistreating her.
"I don’t know you, and you don’t know ," she bursts out, her voice edging on panic. I can hear her heart fluttering again, that sa rhythm as before.
"Co with ," I say suddenly, standing and offering her my hand.
She swallows. "Where?"
"Just co. Do you trust ?"
She hesitates, then places her hand in mine, fingers cool against my palm. "Not really."
My lips curve. I pick her up and carry her in my arms out of the cottage, up to the palace, and into the kitchens. They’re silent at this hour, the gleaming surfaces reflecting the moonlight that spills through the windows.
Maya looks around curiously. "What are we doing here? I told you once before, I don’t taste good, so if you’re planning on eating ..."
I let out a strangled laugh at her joke and place her on the counter, my hands on either side of her, my voice low. "When I eat you, my little mate, my head will be between your legs, and you will be begging for it."
The sll of her arousal floods the room, and I close my eyes, struggling to control myself. When I open them, her face is flushed, and I pull away from her, straightening up.
"This was my mother’s kitchen," I explain, moving to light a few lamps. "She was a chef before she t my father. She never gave it up entirely, even after becoming queen. She would bring us here, Erik and , and teach us how to cook."
Understanding softens her expression. "This is where you learned."
I nod, finding comfort in the familiar space as I gather ingredients from the well-stocked pantry. "It’s where I felt most like myself. Not a prince, not an heir. Just a boy learning to make pasta with his mother."
She hops down and watches
work, leaning against the counter. "Tell
about her."
And so, as I mix flour and eggs for fresh pasta, I tell Maya about my mother, her laughter, her stubbornness, her refusal to conform to traditional queenly expectations. I tell her about my father’s bemused adoration, Erik’s restlessness, and my own quiet determination to live up to my responsibilities.
As I talk, I work the dough, my hands rembering the motions even after all these years. Maya steps closer, drawn by the simple dostic ritual, and I hand her a portion of dough.
"Like this." I demonstrate, showing her how to roll it thin. "Not too much pressure, but firm enough to flatten it evenly."
We work side by side, the humble task of creating a bridge between us that heavy conversation couldn’t. By the ti we’re cutting the pasta into ribbons, Maya’s shoulders have fully relaxed, her movents easy and natural beside mine.
"I’m not afraid of you," she says suddenly, breaking a comfortable silence. "I want you to know that." I look up from the sauce I’m stirring. "I’m glad."
"But I am afraid of this." She gestures vaguely between us. "Of what it ans. What it demands of ."
I consider her words as I plate the pasta, setting it on the small table in the corner of the kitchen. We sit across from each other, the simple al steaming between us.
"The bond isn’t a cage," I tell her. "It’s a recognition. A possibility. It doesn’t demand anything but acknowledgnt."
She twirls pasta onto her fork, the motion automatic. "So, if I walked away right now? If I left the palace, left this world entirely, and went back to my human life?"
The thought sends physical pain through my chest, but I answer honestly. "I would let you go." "Really?" Skepticism colors her voice.
I et her gaze steadily. "I wouldn’t be happy about it. It would hurt. Physically as well as emotionally. But I would respect your choice."
She takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "And the mating? The ceremony? What does that involve, exactly?"
"There’s a mark," I explain, touching the spot where my neck ets my shoulder. "Here. It’s permanent. A visible sign of the bond. It completes the connection between two mates."
"And you would put one on ?"
I nod. "And you on . It’s mutual." "And if we never complete the bond?"
"Then it remains as it is now. A recognition. A pull between us. Nothing more." She considers this, twirling another forkful of pasta. "So, we don’t have to—"
"No," I assure her. "Not until you’re ready. Not unless you choose it. I give you my word."
The tension in her shoulders eases further at my promise. We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the unpretentious food sohow tasting better than any palace feast I’ve attended since my return. "It’s good," she says, nodding toward the pasta. "You haven’t lost your touch."
"Thank you."
She sets her fork down, studying
with those clear eyes. "I’m still angry that you didn’t tell ." "I understand."
"And I’m not ready to be your queen, or wear your mark, or whatever else cos with being a fated mate." "I understand that, too."
Her mouth quirks slightly. "But I’m not walking away, either."
Relief floods through , so intense that I have to set my own fork down to hide the tremor in my hand. "No?"
She shakes her head. "No. I’m...curious. About this pull between us. About you." She reaches across the table, hesitantly resting her fingertips against the back of my hand. "I want to see where this goes."
It’s more than I dared hope for. "So do I."
"But I need ti," she insists. "To get to know you. To figure out if I, if what I feel is real or just this mystical bond thing."
"Ti," I agree. "And space, if you need it."
She considers this, then shakes her head. "Not space. Not right now. I sleep better when you’re near. The nightmares aren’t as bad."
"Then, I’ll be there," I promise. "Whenever you need ."
Her smile, small but genuine, is like the first rays of dawn breaking through a long night. "I think I’d like that."
We finish our al quietly, the air between us lighter than it’s been since she learned the truth. When we walk back to her cottage, her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with a sureness that makes my heart swell.
Under the stars, we spread her blanket in the garden as we’ve done so many other nights. But this ti, as we settle beside each other, Maya turns toward , her face half in shadow.
"Tell
sothing else about you," she murmurs. "Sothing I don’t know yet."
And I do, sharing stories of my childhood, of pranks played with Erik, of lessons learned and mistakes made. She listens, occasionally asking questions, sotis sharing her own mories in return. We talk until her voice grows heavy with sleep, her head gradually coming to rest against my shoulder.
Just before she drifts off, she mumbles, "I’ll be there. At the ceremony." I press a light kiss on her forehead. "Thank you."
She sighs, settling closer. "Just don’t expect
to curtsy. I’m terrible at it."
Her breathing deepens into sleep, but I remain awake, watching the stars wheel overhead, my heart lighter than it has been in years.
***
The night of the ceremony arrives too quickly and not soon enough. A few hours are left before it starts.
The palace hums with preparation, servants darting through corridors, courtiers whispering in corners. The full moon will rise in hours, and with it, my official reclamation of the throne.
Trapped in endless briefings and rituals, I haven’t seen Maya since dawn. But I can feel her presence in the palace, a steady warmth at the edge of my awareness.
I’ve just sent Maya a small surprise when I feel my skin tingling. Isla, the witch from the Northern Kingdom, steps into my office, her face pale and drawn. I get to my feet.
"I need to speak with you," she says urgently. "Alone."
Sothing in her tone makes the guards hesitate, looking to
for direction. I nod, dismissing them with a gesture.
"What is it?" I ask when we’re alone, the dread in her eyes setting off warning bells in my mind. "When did you get here?"
"I arrived with King Locke and his mate. The prophecy," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve deciphered it." I straighten, suddenly alert. "Tell ."
She glances around, as if afraid the walls themselves might be listening. "It’s worse than I feared, King Griffin."
"How so?"
Her hands twist together, the only sign of nerves in her otherwise composed deanor. "Death."
My stomach clenches. "Whose death?"
Her eyes et mine, filled with genuine sorrow. "Your fated mate’s. The prophecy foretells that you will be the cause of her death."
The world seems to tilt beneath my feet. "That’s not possible."
"I’ve checked it three tis," she insists. "Consulted the oldest texts. The aning is clear. Your fated mate will die once you mark her, and you will be the one who takes her life."
I shake my head, denial rising like a tide. "No. I refuse to accept that."
"You asked
to interpret it," she reminds
gently. "I have done so."
"There must be another aning," I insist. "Another way."
Her expression softens with pity. "The prophecies of the old bloodline are never wrong, King Griffin. They may be twisted, or misinterpreted, but never wrong."
My heart sinks, sothing cold forming in my chest. "I am sorry, King Griffin. I truly am."
She heads out of the room, leaving
alone with my thoughts and this grief that is perating my bones.
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