I consider this. "Modesty is a weakness," I inform her, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead, monitoring the merge pattern of traffic as we approach a bottleneck. "It serves no tactical purpose. When one possesses superior skills or knowledge, acknowledging them allows for more accurate mission planning and resource allocation. False humility introduces unnecessary variables and compromises operational effectiveness."
She laughs again, but this time it sounds different. Less nervous. More genuine.
I find I do not mind the sound.
"Okay," she says. "Six months. We met at a gym. You corrected my form, which I'm still annoyed about, by the way, but whatever. We started training together. Things developed. And now we're engaged because...?"
"I claimed you," I state simply, because it is the truth and there is no reason to complicate it with unnecessary explanation.
Silence fills the car's interior.
I can feel the weight of her stare boring into the side of my head with an intensity that would be uncomfortable if I were not accustomed to maintaining focus under far more hostile scrutiny. My peripheral vision catches the slight shift of her body as she turns more fully in her seat to face me, her seatbelt pulling taut with the movement.
"You..." She pauses, and I hear her swallow. "You claimed me."
"Correct," I confirm, executing a smooth lane change to avoid a slower-moving sedan that has become a tactical impediment to our forward progress. "I made my intentions clear. You accepted."
I can hear her breathing, slightly elevated. Processing. Silence extends exactly four seconds before she responds.
"Just like that," she says, and her voice carries a quality I cannot immediately categorize, somewhere between disbelief and something else. Something that makes the air in the vehicle feel different, charged in a way that has nothing to do with the climate control system I adjusted to optimal temperature seventeen minutes ago.
"Orcs do not waste time with elaborate courtship rituals. When we find a suitable mate, we claim them."
"Mate."
"Partner," I correct. "For the purposes of this mission."
"Right. The mission."
Her voice has become strange. Tight. I cannot tell if she is angry or afraid or something else entirely.
"Is this unacceptable?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the road while simultaneously monitoring her reaction through my peripheral vision. The question is tactical. If she has objections to the claim, I need to address them now, before we enter the hostile environment of the wedding venue where deviation from established protocols could compromise the entire operation.
"No, it's just—" She stops abruptly, and I hear the rustle of fabric as she shifts in her seat again. The seatbelt makes a small clicking sound against the buckle. When she starts again, her voice has changed pitch slightly, and gone higher. "That's very... direct."
I consider this assessment. "Directness is efficient," I state, because this is an objective fact. Indirect communication leads to confusion, misunderstandings, and tactical errors. Among my clan, a warrior who cannot clearly state his intentions is considered unreliable in both combat and courtship. The two require the same foundational skill: clarity of purpose.
"Sure. Efficient." There is a pause, during which I execute another lane change with textbook precision. Her laugh comesout strange, almost breathless. "That's exactly the word I was thinking."
I do not understand her tone, but I do not have time to analyze it. The GPS announces our exit. I signal, merge, follow the winding road through wine country. The venue appears ahead, a sprawling estate with white buildings and manicured gardens.
I immediately hate it.
Too open. Too exposed. Too many civilians milling about with champagne glasses and pastel ties.
I pull into the parking area. A young human male in a vest approaches, holding a clipboard.
The valet.
I assess him: five-foot-nine, one hundred and forty pounds, soft hands, no visible weapons. Threat level: minimal. Annoyance level: high.
"Good afternoon!" he says, voice bright and grating. "Welcome to Vineyard Valley! Are you here for the wedding?"
Colletta leans across me to answer, and I catch her scent: coffee and something floral and underneath it all, the sharp tang of nervousness.
"Yes," she says, her voice taking on that artificially bright tone she uses when trying to overcompensate for my presence. "We're with the bride's family. Colletta Fears, I'm on the list."
"Wonderful!" The valet's smile widens as he gestures toward the vehicle with his clipboard, apparently oblivious to the fact that I have not unlocked the doors or made any move to exit. "If you'll just pop the trunk for me, I'll grab your bags and get you folks parked in our premium section?—"
