32
BETTY
It is time.
The hovel is dark, save for the low, red-orange glow of the fire, which I fed and banked an hour ago. Outside, the village of Oakhaven is silent, asleep under a new blanket of snow. The world is asleep.
But we are awake.
My heart is a frantic, heavy drum against my ribs, a beat of anticipation so strong it makes my hands tremble. This is not the shivering of cold or fear. It is awe.
For two weeks, we have been living. We have been partners. We have been rebuilding this hovel, our hovel, and rebuilding the village's trust. But tonight is different.
The public proposal in front of the Christmas fire was for them. A human custom to settle their fears.
This... this is for us.
Threk stands in the center of the expanded room, in the space he built with his own hands. He is waiting for me. He is not Threk the Urog, a creature of shadow and rage. Not Threk the survivor, shell-shocked and confused.
He is Namir.
He is an Orc warrior, and he is every inch a king.
He is bare-chested, his deep green skin seeming to drink in the firelight. The muscles of his shoulders and chest are a map of power, defined by the flickering shadows. And in the center of it all, over his heart, is his scar. The pale, silvery, star-shaped scar that binds us, the mark of his sacrifice, the proof of his love. He wears simple, dark leggings and nothing else. He is proud. He is magnificent. And he is mine.
On the floor between us is the circle.
He spent an hour carving it, a perfect, deep groove in the packed earth, which he then filled with pure, white salt. A ring of protection. A final boundary.
I take a deep, shuddering breath. This is it. The real choice. The final "yes."
I step forward, my bare feet silent on the floor. I stop at the edge of the circle.
He watches me, his hazel eyes ablaze with a heat that has little to do with the fire. It is a look of such profound, possessive, and reverent love that it steals my breath. He holds out his hand.
I place my hand in his. His calloused, green fingers envelop mine, his strength a comforting promise.
He pulls me gently across the threshold of salt.
I step into the circle with him.
The moment my foot touches the earth inside the ring, the world changes.
It is not a flash of light. It is a silence. The crackle of the fire fades. The low whine of the wind outside the new walls is gone. The world outside this ring of salt ceases to exist.
There is nothing but Threk. There is nothing but the heat radiating from his skin and the thrum of magic—a deep, ancient, earthy magic—that seems to rise from the ground itself. It hums in my bones.
He does not let go of my hand.
He turns to face the fire, pulling me to stand at his side. He lifts his other hand, palm out, toward the flames.
And he speaks.
The words are not for me. They are in his language. Orcish.
It is a sound I have never heard. It is deep, guttural, and powerful. It is a rumble that vibrates through his chest and into my hand. He is not asking. He is not praying.
He is vowing. He is declaring.
