Chapter 2:The Prince Answered

The violet light from the runes flared so brightly that Elara had to shield her eyes. When the glare faded, she was no longer alone in the moonlit clearing.

Prince Thorne stood mere inches away, towering over her. Up close, he was even more devastating. His skin held the pale luminescence of moonlight on fresh snow, and his silver hair shimmered with threads of starlight. Those black eyes—bottomless, ancient, and far too knowing—pinned her in place like a butterfly to a board.

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.

“You mortals are so delightfully predictable,” he murmured. His voice wrapped around her like warm velvet, sliding across her skin and stirring things low in her belly, she refused to name. “Blood and desperation. Every time.”

Elara swallowed hard, her bleeding palm clutched against her chest. “You said you would heal her. My sister. Do it. Now.”

Thorne tilted his head, studying her the way a cat studies a particularly bold mouse. One elegant finger traced the air above her wrist, and the glowing runes pulsed in response. A shiver raced through her body—part fear, part something darker.

“As you wish.”

He snapped his fingers.

A wave of cool, sparkling magic rippled outward from him, passing through the trees toward the village. Elara felt it brush against her like silk and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, in their little cottage, she imagined Lysa drawing her first clean, deep breath in weeks.

“She will wake at dawn,” Thorne said casually. “Healthy. Whole. The plague will never touch her again. My word is binding.”

Relief crashed over Elara so violently that her knees buckled. She caught herself on a nearby tree, bark biting into her palm. Tears stung her eyes. “Thank you.”

Thorne laughed softly, a dark, musical sound that sent goosebumps racing across her arms. “Do not thank me yet, little herbalist. The price has only begun.”

Before she could respond, he stepped closer. The scent of him—night-blooming flowers, smouldering cedar, and something wild and electric—filled her lungs. His hand rose, cool fingers tilting her chin up so she was forced to meet his gaze.

“One night of your complete surrender,” he reminded her, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “Your body. Your pleasure. Your obedience. Every gasp, every moan, every trembling inch of you belongs to me for that night.”

Elara’s breath hitched. Heat flooded her cheeks. She had expected a monster. She had not expected this—beauty so sharp it cut, charisma so potent it made her thighs press together instinctively.

“I agreed,” she whispered. “One night. Take it and be done with me.”

Thorne’s smile turned predatory. He leaned in until his lips hovered just above hers, close enough that she could feel the cool brush of his breath.

“Ah, but here is where mortals always stumble,” he whispered. “Time moves differently across the veil. One night in your world… equals one full year in mine.”

Elara’s heart slammed against her ribs. “What?”

The runes on her wrists flared hotter, searing into her skin like living brands. She gasped, trying to pull away, but Thorne’s other hand caught her waist, holding her firmly against him. His body was hard, unyielding, radiating power, and barely leashed hunger.

“You belong to me for one year in the Evernight Court,” he continued smoothly, as if discussing the weather. “You will attend my court. You will survive the trials. And you will warm my bed whenever I desire. Refuse… and the bond tightens. Painfully.”

Panic surged through her. She shoved at his chest—solid as marble—and felt only the faintest give. “This wasn’t the deal! I said one night!”

“You said ‘whatever it takes,’” Thorne corrected, eyes gleaming with dark amusement. “The old words are precise. The magic heard your desperation and sealed the terms. There is no going back.”

Elara’s mind reeled. A year. Trapped in the faerie realm with this beautiful, dangerous creature. Her sister would live, but she would lose everything else.

Thorne’s thumb brushed slowly across her lower lip, sending a spark of unwanted heat straight through her.

“Fight it if you like,” he murmured. “I enjoy the struggle. It makes the surrender so much sweeter.”

The rift in the air yawned wider behind him, revealing glimpses of a night sky filled with impossible constellations and a palace that shimmered like black diamond and moonlight. Shadowy vines reached out from the tear, curling gently but insistently around her ankles.

Elara looked back toward the village one last time, heart aching. Lysa would wake. She would live.

That had to be enough.

She turned back to the Fae Prince, lifting her chin in defiance even as fear and a treacherous thread of dark curiosity twisted inside her.

“Then take me,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “And may you choke on your bargain, Prince.”

Thorne’s laughter was rich and delighted. He pulled her flush against him, one arm banding around her waist like iron.

“Oh, Elara,” he purred against her ear as the world dissolved into violet light and rushing shadow. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you.”

The forest vanished.

The mortal world vanished.

And the year in Faerie began.

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