I stare, then shake my head. “Fine.”
They cheer.
“You’ll need discipline,” I add.
They nod solemnly.
“Commitment.”
More nods.
“No tattoos.”
Pause.
“Aww, c’mon?—”
“No,” I growl. “Orc tattoos are sacred. You do not mark your skin with symbols of a culture you haven’t bled for.”
“But what if wedobleed?” Booger pleads.
Burnout chimes in, “We bled today! You saw the thistle bush! It tasted blood!”
“I saidno.”
They groan like tortured banshees.
An hour later, I’m sitting on the cabin porch, sipping from a chipped mug of tea Olivia swears tastes better than it smells. She flops into the chair beside me, elbow to elbow, hips touching.
“They cornered me in the library,” she says, smirking.
“What’d they want?”
“Tattoos.”
I sigh, long and loud.
“What’d you say?”
“I told them to ask you.”
I grunt.
“What’d you say?”
“I said no.”
She grins into her tea. “And?”
“They asked again. I said no harder.”
Her eyes narrow, amused.
“Then they asked a third time.”
“And?”
I glare into my cup.
