The lake at the center of the palace grounds shimmered like a jewel under the morning sun. White birds floated lazily across the surface. Blossoming trees swayed gently in the breeze, their petals scattering like snow.
A white canopy had been set up under the shade, and beneath it, Metheea and Kalistra shared tea and cakes atop silk cushions. The table was delicate, the spread decadent with glass flutes of juice, honeyed fruits, warm breads, and tiny desserts that looked too pretty to eat.
Metheea looked around, distracted. Something felt out of place.
"Where's Resme?" she asked.
Kalistra smirked into her teacup. "She wasn't allowed past the gates."
Metheea blinked. "What?"
"She was turned away." Kalistra took a slow sip. "Apparently, there were... inconsistencies with her invitation."
Metheea raised an eyebrow.
Kalistra leaned in, voice low and wickedly amused. "It was funny."
Metheea smiled despite herself. "Do you have anything to do with that?"
"Oh, no," Kalistra said, feigning innocence, her smile sharp. "I never expected they wouldn't let a count's daughter through. How shocking."
She giggled into her palm.
Metheea shook her head, half exasperated, half entertained. For a moment, she felt almost normal.
Then the announcement came.
"His Highness, Prince Azrayel."
Her spine went stiff.
She didn't have to turn to know he was approaching. His presence always seemed to bend the air itself.
Kalistra stood to curtsy.
"Don't bother," Azrayel said, voice smooth.
Kalistra grinned and sat back down.
Metheea kept her gaze on the tea tray.
"Lady Velista. Lady Kalistra," he greeted.
Kalistra answered for them both. "Your Highness."
Metheea still didn't look up.
Azrayel paused beside the table. "Lady Velista," he said, more directly now. "Would you care to join me for a boat ride?"
She stilled.
Every part of her tensed. Eyes were on them. She could feel it. . The silent guards near the trees. Watching. Waiting.
She debated—what would be more damning? Refusing the crown prince in public? Or going with him, continuing this farce?
She chose the quieter path. The one that bought her more time.
"Of course," she said.
He offered his arm.
She stood and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.
"You look like a gentleman today," she muttered.
"I am always a gentleman," he replied, his tone teasing.
She rolled her eyes. "Just three days ago, heads rolled on your order."
He smiled. "And yet I still look good doing it."
She hated that she agreed. He looked unbearably handsome in sunlight, dressed in fine black and crimson.
He led her to the boat like a proper gentleman, steady and quiet. Once inside, he took the oars and pushed them gently out onto the lake. The water rippled in rings around them, soft and slow.
For a while, they spoke of harmless things—childhood stories, the training halls, how palace cooks made the worst soup on rainy days. She laughed once, surprising herself.
Then he stopped rowing.
"How do you feel about extending your time in the palace?" he asked casually, though his eyes said otherwise.
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
He reached out, took her hand into his. "We both know what I'm talking about," he said. "It's time I introduced a mate," he said, the word heavy with old tradition—one that bound dragons not just by politics, but by instinct.
She nearly forgot to breathe. Looking away quickly, she whispered, "I am not your mate."
I am your sister, she wanted to scream.
"Besides," she said more firmly, "I'm promised to someone."
He bit his lower lip menacingly, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "A dead man, you mean?"
She looked at him, and in that moment, she knew he could do it—wipe that man from existence without blinking. Her pulse spiked.
"Do not say that," she said sharply. "I love him," she lied, clinging to the only thing that could still protect them both.
Azrayel let out a low, sarcastic laugh. "Love?"
He leaned closer. "I can give you that and more. You'll be queen."
She looked away, eyes fixed on the lake's surface, wishing she could sink into it. She should never have agreed to this ride. He spoke of the pull between them as if it were fate—something primal and binding. But he didn't understand. What he mistook as mate-calling, she recognized as something else—familiarity.
The tug of blood, not desire. And if she didn't draw the line soon, he never would.
"Prince Azrayel," she said finally, voice firmer now, "there is no future between us."
His expression darkened for a brief second. Then, as always, the smile returned.
"You can't deny the pull between us," he said.
"Pull? Whatever do you mean?" she asked, feigning innocence. "Please… let's stop. Let's return. Kalistra might be waiting."
As the boat drifted, her resolve began to harden. She'd been far too passive, far too quiet. If going home was what it took to stop this madness, then she would go home.
Azrayel chuckled. "Ah, how can I say no to you, my lady?"
He rowed them gently back toward the shore.
But before she could step out, he caught her hand and lifted it to his lips.
His kiss was slow, deliberate.
"Be careful teasing a dragon," he murmured. "We tend to burn what resists us."