“I think I’ve been waiting my whole life for you to walk into my pottery barn.”
Her smile flickered upward. “That’s a pretty good answer.”
The acceptance in her voice touched places in my heart I’d thought were permanently closed off. I’d resigned myself to being alone, to watching my brothers find happiness while I remained on the side. But here was Allie, marked by fate as mine, looking at me like I was worth keeping.
I rose to my knees on the shed floor, moving slowly so I wouldn’t startle her. “There’s…there’s a tradition. Part of the bond. If you’re willing.”
“What kind of tradition?”
“May I have your hands?”
She extended both toward me without hesitation, and the trust in that simple gesture made my throat close off. I took her left hand first, the one with the new mark, and turned it palm up.
“In orc culture, we sig-signify the bond with taste and touch.” I met her eyes, wanting her to understand the significance. “It’s sacred to us. A promise but…not permanence. You c-c-can still say no.”
“Okay, you can do whatever it is.”
First, I showed her my own mark, and when she traced her fingertip around the pattern, goosebumps rose on my skin.
It was only after she’d released me that I lowered my head and pressed my lips to her palm. I drew my tongue across the sensitive skin from her palm to her wrist, covering the new mark. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. I repeated the gesture with her other hand, taking my time, giving this moment the reverence it needed.
“You taste like you’re mine,” I said against her skin. “And I taste like I’m y-yours.”
“Does this mean we’re sort of engaged?”
I lifted my head. “We’re bonded. Mated is-is-is different. That comes la-later, if you-you choose it.”
“What’s the difference?”
Flames crept up my spine. “Bonded means we’re connected, that we be-belong to each other. Mated is when we’ve…physically claimed each other. Completed the bond in every way.”
Understanding dawned in her eyes. “Ah. Got it.”
Outside, the storm was tapering off, the steady patter of rain on the roof becoming sporadic drops. Lightning still flickered in the eastern sky, but the thunder was growing distant.
“Sounds like it’s clearing up,” Allie said, glancing toward the window.
I rose to my feet and tugged her up from the floor. “We should get you back to-to the hotel before another wave hits. Prairie storms c-c-can have multiple fronts.”
Tressa stretched and shook herself, ready to venture back outside.
We carefully made our way through the puddles and mud to the pottery barn, Tressa trotting beside us with her usual confidence. The air smelled fresh and clean, washed by the rain, and the oppressive heat from earlier had broken.
Allie gathered her things, and we stepped back outside, me locking the barn door behind us.
“Do you feel any different now that I have the mark too?” she asked.
I considered the question. “I feel…complete. Like a piece I didn’t know was missing has click-click-clicked into place.”
“That’s sweet.”
“What about you? Any su-su-sudden urges to collect clay or stutter when you talk?”
She laughed. “No stuttering yet. Though I do have an inexplicable desire to make pottery.”
“That might be the bond, or it might be that pottery is amazing.”
“Probably both.”
