**EIGHT MONTHS LATER**
For the past few months, Rennick had risen before dawn each day to bond with his familiar, Greta, a large snowy white owl. He’d lie in his room with his eyes closed, tapping into their connection.
Greta’s thoughts were akin to Amelia’s emotions traveling through the mating bond but much clearer. Emotions were often hard to interpret, their sources obscure, but with familiars, thoughts and feelings came through like a sixth sense.
That morning, Rennick allowed Greta to lead them wherever she wished. When she flew through the barrier into the Human Kingdom, he had expected their connection to break. However, it didn’t. She admitted her curiosity about whether it would hold since he was only fifteen.
You could have told me that’s what you were doing, he grumbled through their bond.
Greta ignored his tone. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.
Rennick mentally noted to ask his father more about the limits of their familiar bond.
Once he realized their connection had survived crossing the barrier, he grasped the implications and possibilities. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. He and Greta agreed to catch a quick glimpse of Amelia and then leave.
Over the years, Rennick had asked Finn what his mate looked like, and Finn, being Finn, had only said she was tall, blonde, and pretty. That was it.
That morning, he watched as the girls from the orphanage walked to school, and, of course, there were two tall, blonde girls who looked his age. They walked together, separated from the others, with a tiny, big-eared fox trotting beside them. Rennick had no way of knowing which girl was his mate.
But the more he watched them, the less he cared about distinguishing who was who, because he couldn’t take his eyes off the girl whose face lit up as she spoke, her hands moving more energetically with her excitement.
She was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Looking away was impossible, and when a classmate called her name outside the school building, confirming she was Amelia, everything else faded until only she remained.
Once Amelia went inside, Greta perched on a branch outside her school. That had been hours ago. Yet Rennick still stared through the owl’s eyes, utterly mesmerized.
Tall windows lined both sides of the school building, providing a perfect view of his mate. He greedily absorbed every detail in the short time he had.
When the class broke for lunch, most students left, but Amelia and her friend from the morning stayed at their desks. Amelia reached into an old lunch pail, pulling out a book, sandwich, and apple, and neatly arranging them on her desk. Her hair swayed with the movement, and Rennick longed to run his fingers through it. She wore a simple blue dress that strained against her soft chest and hovered well above her ankles.
Everything she did captivated him, even the way she ate her small sandwich.
Is that all she brought to eat? he wondered, frowning.
Greta bristled, just as displeased with Amelia’s meager lunch as he was.
Feed your mate.
I will, he promised the owl, who was poised to attack if anyone tried to take Amelia’s apple.
Seeing Amelia for the first time was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and he knew, without a doubt, that he would love her more than anyone had ever loved another.
—
**Letter #24**
Hello, Love,
My imagination did not do you justice. You are beautiful. Yours,
Nick
P.S. Are the other girls at the orphanage taking your food? I’ve included a basket of things for you to keep in your room, just in case.
—
Amelia stared from the letter in her hand to the giant basket of food on her desk, unsure which oddity to address first.
He said he’d seen her, but how? She had always assumed he used magic to deliver the letters, but maybe he slipped in and out of her room without her knowing? No, that couldn’t be it, as he claimed never to have seen her before now. Nothing about Nick and his letters made sense.
She glanced down at her body. Why did he think she was starving? Once again, she had the uneasy feeling that the letters weren’t meant for her. After two years, he still hadn’t used her name.
The only thing giving her hope was that he always wished her a happy birthday. She didn’t know when the other girls’ birthdays were—birthdays weren’t celebrated at the orphanage since some of the girls didn’t know theirs—and she didn’t want to ask, afraid of the answer.
She stared at his signature. Nick. “Who are you?”
The paper crinkled slightly as she pressed the letter to her chest, wishing she could keep it.
Nick wrote to her every month, and a few months ago, she’d held onto one of the letters and tried to copy it down, but it had been snatched from her fingers and vanished into thin air before she’d finished the first line.
Sighing, she stared at the paper in despair. “Can’t I keep this one?” she whispered, hoping the letter-stealing magic would take pity on her. Her finger traced over the words she’d never forget.
He called me beautiful.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something flicker in and out of existence. She blinked, sure she’d imagined a teenage boy glancing at her over his shoulder before disappearing again, leaving the letter behind.
