“That you are mine.”
Her breath catches slightly.
There. That word does something to her. Fear, yes. But not only fear.
I change direction before she can retreat behind it.
“You asked what you are here. You are not expected to become horde-born in one day. You will not know all customs at once. You will make mistakes.”
Her brows rise faintly. “Comforting.”
“It should be. I am telling you mistakes do not end you.”
That takes some of the edge from her face.
I go on. “There are things you must learn quickly. Weather signs. Which beasts are dangerous. Which children belong to which women if they come to you. How the camp moves when the alarm is called. What spaces are yours. What spaces are mine alone. What Oshara may instruct. What she may not.”
“You have a lot of rules.”
“We live.”
That pulls a breath of something almost like humor from her again. “You make survival sound like an argument.”
“It is.”
For a second, a real small smile appears. It changes her whole face. Rounder. Younger. Softer in a way that should not strike me as hard as it does because I have already had her in my bed and marked her with my scent and watched her sleep under my furs.
That tiny smile hits me harder than any of it.
I have to look away once toward the camp below just to regain the clean line of my thoughts. When I look back, she has noticed.
Let her know she affects me somewhat. Not enough to frighten. Enough to matter.
Her attention shifts then to the markings at my throat, where the morning light catches the ink beneath my skin. She hesitates, then asks, “Your tattoos. Yesterday you said you would explain them.”
I go still for one long beat.
That is not a question many people ask me directly. Not anymore. The horde knows. Outsiders either fear asking or do not earn the answer. Keandra has earned little yet in terms of time. But she is my wife. My mate. And she asked, which means she noticed. That matters too.
I step closer, not enough to press her back, only enough that I can touch the edge of the tattoo at my neck if needed to name it properly.
“This one is for Vek Talan. My ground. My king’s line.”
Dark ink curls from the side of my neck down beneath the collar. Not decorative lines. Stronger than that. Older.
She studies it openly now, more curious than frightened.
I touch another mark lower, partly hidden beneath the open front of my shirt.
“This, for the first blood I took in battle as a grown warrior.”
Her eyes flick up to my face and then back down. I do not hide the rest.
“This line for my father. This is for my brother.” I touch another, then another. “Lost. Both.”
Her face changes at once. Not pity. Thank the gods. Something quieter. Recognition of grief without trying to step into it and make it hers.
Good.
