We gathered our few belongings. The intimate morning felt like a dream now, something that had happened to other people. But the marks were real, undeniable proof of the connection we’d forged.
As I folded the blankets we’d shared, I found myself thinking about the look in Becken’s eyes when he’d seen the marks. Panic, yes, but also something else. Longing mixed with fear. I’d nearly missed it in my own stunned wonder.
He’d lost one mate already. The thought hit me, making my heart spasm. He’d loved Wexla, cared for her through illness and death. Now the universe had given him another mate, one who was planning to leave soon.
No wonder he looked terrified.
“Ready?” he asked.
After zipping my coat and pulling up the hood, I nodded, though ready felt like the wrong word. I wasn’t prepared for any of this. Not the marks, what they might mean, or the way my heart raced every time he glanced my way.
But ready or not, it was time to return to Lonesome Creek.
We stepped out into the crisp morning air. The snow crunched beneath our boots as we approached Peeka, who lifted her head. She released a soft whoof, almost like an apology, and nuzzled Becken’s shoulder when he reached her.
“It’s all right.” He ran a hand along her neck. “Thanks for finding me.”
Turning, he lifted me onto the sorhox’s back, his hands feeling much too impersonal. He leaped up behind me and settled his body against mine. I suppressed a shiver of awareness.
“Hold on,” he said as he slid his arm around my waist.
As Peeka began to move through the forest at his heel command, I chided myself for losing control.
Behind me, Becken’s breathing was steady but controlled, as if he was working to hold onto his own composure. I wondered what he was thinking, whether he regretted what happened between us.
I was a jumble of emotions, too tangled together to figure them out. Confusion. My own mix of longing and fear.
The forest gave way to open plain, and in the distance, I spied Lonesome Creek. Our refuge was ending, and with it, the strange bubble of intimacy we’d created. Soon we’d be back in the real world, where we’d have to face the consequences of what had happened.
I touched the mark on my wrist. Whatever this meant and whatever came next, it was clear everything had changed.
What were we going to do about it?
Chapter 12
Becken
The ride back to Lonesome Creek stretched ahead us, each step Peeka took along the trail a reminder of how everything had changed. Carla sat in front of me, her body tense despite my arm around her waist. The golden mark on my wrist caught the sunlight whenever I adjusted my position, a constant reminder of what had happened.
Fated mates.
The concept should’ve filled me with joy. In the orc kingdom, finding one’s destined partner was considered the greatest blessing the fates could bestow. But all I felt was a crushing weight of responsibility mixed with terror.
I’d had six months to grieve Wexla, to tell myself I might be ready to live again. But ready to love again? Ready to risk the devastating loss that came with caring for someone who could be taken away?
How could I ever prepare myself for that?
According to orc tradition, the marks connected mates on a deeper level. I could sense Carla’s confusion, fear, and something else I couldn’t name. Regret, perhaps. Or was that my own feeling reflected back at me?
Her body remained rigid against mine, nothing like the soft warmth of the woman who’d melted in my arms not long ago. The memory of her taste, her sounds of pleasure, the way she’d clung to me as she came undone, played through my mind like a song I couldn’t stop humming.
I’d never experienced anything like giving her pleasure. With Wexla, intimacy had been gentle, comfortable, mutual. But with Carla, I’d felt driven by something primal, a need to worship her body until she cried out my name. The way she’d responded, the sounds she’d made, and the way her body had trembled from my mouth had been intoxicating enough to push me over the edge without any touch in return.
That had never happened to me before. The intensity of it had shaken me as much as the appearance of the marks.
“Are you comfortable?” I asked, my voice rough.
“Yes.” Her response came out clipped, professional. The woman who’d gasped my name and begged for more had disappeared, replaced by the competent consultant who’d first walked into the saloon.
