“It means,” he said, his voice dropping into something rough and honest and more vulnerable than she’d ever heard from him, “that you’re more than I bargained for when I claimed you. It means the beast in my chest doesn’t care about political convenience or appropriate titles. It means—”
A knock at the door interrupted him.
Sylas’s head snapped toward the sound, a growl building in his throat—low and dangerous and utterly unlike the satisfied purr from moments ago. Whoever waited on the other side would have heard it. Would know they’d interrupted something.
“Food,” he said flatly, the word directed at her. “You’re eating. All of it. And then we’re going to discuss why you thought it was acceptable to starve yourself in my care.”
He moved toward the door, tension radiating from every line of his body.
Elsa watched him go—watched the powerful flex of muscle beneath fur, the smoldering rage in his stride, the way his tail lashed behind him like an agitated pendulum. He moved like a storm contained in flesh and bone. Like violence barely leashed by will alone.
And all of it—every ounce of that terrifying intensity—was directed at protecting her.
From herself, apparently. From her own habits. From the survival instincts that had kept her alive through her life—her time on theStardancer, the crash and the captivity and every nightmare in between.
Her hand pressed unconsciously to her wrist. Her fingers found the blue-gemmed bracer there, the smooth metal warmfrom her skin, the gem pulsing faintly in sync with her heartbeat. She’d stopped noticing the weight of it. Had stopped registering it as a symbol of her captivity.
Now, though, it felt different. Heavier. More significant.
She curled her fingers around the bracer’s edge, feeling the intricate engravings that marked her as his. Marked her as something worth keeping. Worth feeding. Worth protecting from the political enemies who circled this fortress and from her own damn stubbornness.
Through the door, she could hear his voice—low and commanding, issuing orders to whoever had arrived with the food. The words were indistinct, but the tone carried clear enough. He wasn’t asking. He was demanding. The Alpha King ensuring his mate received what she needed, whether she wanted it or not.
Mate.
The word echoed through her mind, settling into places she hadn’t known were empty.
She should fight this. Should resist the way her chest warmed at his fury, the way her pulse had kicked up not from fear but from something darker when he’d pressed against her in the nest. Should remember that she was a captive, a prisoner, a navigator who’d been stripped of her ship and her crew and her entire purpose.
But the morning light was streaming through those narrow windows now, casting golden bars across the furs where she sat. The chamber smelled of starlight and stone and that musk she was learning to associate with him—with safety, with warmth, with the first real rest she’d had in months.
And somewhere beneath the fear and the confusion and the desperate need to understand what was happening to her, a small voice whispered that maybe this wasn’t the worst fate she could have stumbled into.
What did I get myself into?
The question surfaced again, familiar now. She’d asked it last night when he’d curled around her in this very nest and she’d felt, for the first time since the crash, genuinely safe.
But this time it sounded different. This time, when the question formed in her mind, it didn’t carry the sharp edge of fear.
This time, it sounded like the beginning of something.
Something that felt terrifyingly, treacherously, impossibly like hope.
Outside the chamber, she heard the door mechanisms engage. Sylas’s footsteps returned—heavier now, carrying something. The meal he’d demanded for her.
Elsa drew a breath, steadying herself.
Whatever came next—the food, the conversation, the revelation of what “mate” truly meant in his vocabulary—she would face it the same way she’d faced everything since the crash.
One moment at a time.
13
Sylas
The servant who’d brought the tray had the good sense to keep his eyes lowered.
Growling, Sylas took the food, claws curling around handles carved from polished bone. The spread was excessive—roasted meats sliced thin, soft bread still steaming from the ovens, dried fruits and honeyed nuts and three different kinds of broth in ceramic vessels designed to retain heat. More than one human could possibly consume in a single sitting.