Faith.
Something primal and ancient stirred beneath Kovrak’s ribs—his white tiger surging forward with sudden, fierce attention. The restless agitation that had plagued his beast simply... ceased. As if the sound itself carried some deep recognition his rational mind couldn’t grasp.
Ridiculous.
Kovrak forced his breathing to remain steady. The reaction was nothing more than stress manifesting in peculiar ways. His future hung on this arrangement working, and his tiger sensed the importance. When Varrek inevitably issued hisformal challenge at week’s end, Kovrak needed to be mated and engaged, utterly beyond political reproach.
That was all this was. Desperation wearing the mask of instinct.
The twin suns cast their familiar double shadows across the terrace, but something else caught his attention—a scent threading through the evening air that made his pulse stutter. Lilacs and cinnamon. An impossible combination that shouldn’t work together but somehow created something entirely new and entirely intoxicating.
His tiger rumbled deep in his chest, a sound of pure interest.
Kovrak’s hands tightened on the terrace railing as movement below drew his gaze. Two figures crossed the palace grounds—Gerri’s distinctive white bob unmistakable even from this distance. And beside her...
The world narrowed to a single point of focus.
Faith.
She moved with unconscious grace, her long brown hair catching the light as she took in the palace with obvious wonder. She was wearing Earth clothes—a simple t-shirt and jeans that should have looked painfully out of place against the formal grandeur of his home, but instead, she looked real in a way that made everything else seem like elaborate theater.
Her curves made his mouth go dry as she approached closer. She was soft where he was hard, fluid where he was rigid. Even from this distance, he could see the strength in her posture, the way she carried herself with quiet confidence despite being clearly overwhelmed.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a caged animal demanding release.
“Well.” Thalen’s voice carried rich amusement. “This is certainly a promising start to this year’s week-long festival.”
Kovrak couldn’t form words. Couldn’t think past the sudden, devastating certainty that his life had just shifted on its axis. Twenty years of controlled festival appearances, of managing expectations and political necessities, and now this woman—this human baker—was walking toward his palace wearing sneakers and making his tiger pace with anticipation.
Merral’s satisfaction radiated like heat. “Now that we have your full attention, Kovrak, let’s go downstairs and meet your match.”
Nervousness—actual, genuine nervousness—crawled up Kovrak’s spine like a living thing. The sensation was so foreign, so completely at odds with twenty years of controlled public appearances, that he almost didn’t recognize it. He was thirty-five years old, a prince who commanded absolute respect, a leader who’d never once doubted his ability to handle any situation.
And the prospect of meeting one human woman had reduced him to feeling like a boy facing his first formal dinner.
Unacceptable.
But his feet moved anyway, following Merral and Thalen through the palace corridors toward the grand foyer. Each step brought that intoxicating scent stronger—lilacs and cinnamon wrapping around him like silk.
The foyer’s vaulted ceilings echoed with their footsteps as they descended the curved staircase. Gerri stood near the entrance, her designer pink pantsuit a splash of color against the palace’s formal stone. Her eyes sparkled with unmistakable triumph as she spotted them approaching. And beside her...
Kovrak’s breath caught.
Up close, Faith was devastating. Sun-kissed skin and warm brown eyes that missed nothing, taking in the palace’s grandeur with sharp intelligence rather than intimidation.
“Prince Kovrak!” Gerri’s voice carried cheerful authority. “Allow me to present Faith Woodard, our cultural guest for the festival. Faith has graciously agreed to create an innovative dessert showcase for your celebration.”
The deliberate omission hit him like a slap. No mention of mates or matches. No reference to the bond that ancient law demanded he form. Gerri had clearly kept that detail from Faith entirely.
Kovrak stepped forward, drawing on twenty years of diplomatic training to mask the chaos beneath his skin. “Miss Woodard.” His voice emerged steady and controlled. “Thank you for agreeing to work our festival. I’m looking forward to sampling your desserts.”
He extended his hand, meaning nothing more than formal courtesy.
But the moment their skin connected, the world exploded.
The mate bond slammed into place with the force of a physical blow—recognition so complete, so devastating, that his tiger roared triumph while his rational mind reeled.Mine. Protect. Claim.The words thundered through his blood like a war cry.
Every instinct he possessed locked onto Faith with laser focus. The scent of her skin, the warmth of her palm against his, the way her brown eyes widened with surprise—it all burned into his consciousness with perfect, terrifying clarity.