“Welcome to Lonesome Creek and our family.” Aunt Inla ignored my emotional state with the tact of someone who must understand trauma. “I hope you’ll like it here.” Her dark gaze sought Dungar’s. “I have a feeling you’re exactly what this town needs.”
Chapter 2
Dungar
Iwalked beside Riley along the dusty street of Lonesome Creek.
We passed an older woman who paused and frowned, gazing between us before huffing and skirting around us, continuing along the boardwalk. I stared after her, but she didn’t look our way again. Maybe she didn’t like law enforcement officers; it wasn’t that uncommon.
My attention was caught by my mating mark on my right inner wrist, the circular, golden symbol that appeared when an orc found their true mate. When I touched Riley, it seared beneath my flesh. I’d read about mating marks in the old texts and seen them on each of my brothers’ wrists after they found their true mates, but I’d never imagined one would burn into my skin. Especially not for a human woman who may or may not be able to handle my O of the CD.
Riley Smith. Even her name sounded like music tome. She walked beside me with the careful awareness of someone who’d learned to watch for threats. Everything about her body language screamed hypervigilance, from the way she positioned herself in the shadows beneath the boardwalk cover to the way her eyes constantly scanned our surroundings. Whatever had driven her to Lonesome Creek had left marks on her deeper than any physical scar.
My protective instincts, already heightened by the mating bond, roared to life every time she flinched at an unexpected sound. Someone had hurt her. Made her afraid. And every fiber of my being wanted to hunt down whoever was responsible and show them exactly why orcs should be feared across the surface world.
But right now, I suspected my mate needed gentleness, not violence. She needed to feel safe.
My mate.The words still felt surreal. After watching my brothers fall in love one by one, I’d begun to think the fates had forgotten about me. That I was destined to spend my life organizing other people’s happiness while never finding my own.
Then Riley had appeared outside my office window like an answer to a prayer I hadn’t known I was speaking.
“Sothisis the famous Red Fang Saloon,” Riley said as we approached the swinging doors of Greel and Jessi’s business. “I read about it online. I have to admit, I’m curious about the name.”
“Legend has it that the first orc to emerge from the underground kingdom lost atusk in a bar fight.”
“You have white tusks, not red, and they’re not fangs, are they?”
“We don’t use them to bite like your mythical vampires.”
She smiled. “Good.”
I held the right swinging door open for her to enter the saloon. “Knowing my brother, Greel, he probably thought Red Fang sounded intimidating, and there’s nothing else to it.”
Riley’s low chuckle hit me like a punch to the gut. Why did making her smile feel like the most important accomplishment of my life?
We’d built the saloon’s interior to resemble the old human wild west, dimly lit and deliberately rustic, all purposefully worn wood and iron fixtures. It had been designed to give tourists that authentic Old West experience they craved. Greel polished glasses behind the bar. His dark hair fell across his forehead as he worked, and his big frame made the sturdy bar look almost delicate.
His mate, Jessi, sat at a table near the back of the big open room, counting receipts while making notes in a ledger, periodically looking up at him and smiling. The sight of them working perfectly attuned to each other’s presence made my heart twist in my chest. They made this business of being mated look easy. They’d created a seamless partnership where two became one without losing themselves.
“Greel,” I called out, my voice carrying across the empty room. “Jessi? I’d like you to meet our new deputy, Riley Smith.”
My brother looked up, his dark eyes immediately focusing on Riley with the same protective assessment I’d seen him give every newcomer to Lonesome Creek. But where my approach would be seen as methodical and systematic, Greel’s showed pure instinct. He could read people the way others read books, picking up on hidden pain and subterfuge with uncanny accuracy.
“Deputy Smith.” He set down the glass and moved around the bar. “Welcome.”
Riley stepped toward him with a sweet smile. Greel’s expression shifted as he caught sight of the golden mark on my wrist. His eyes widened before his gaze flicked between Riley and me, understanding dawning on his features.
Greel had been the second of us to find his mate, the second to understand the overwhelming intensity of the mating bond. He recognized the signs because he’d lived them.
“Thank you.” Riley shook Greel’s outstretched hand. “Dungar has been giving me a tour. This place is gorgeous.”
“Jessi designed most of the interior.” Greel’s voice carried that note of pride it always held when he spoke about his mate. “She has an eye for making people feel welcome.”
From her corner table, Jessi looked up with a warm smile. “Did someone mention my name?”
“Greel’s telling Riley about your decorating skills.” I guided Riley toward the table where Jessi sat. “Riley, thisis Jessi, Greel’s mate and the person who keeps this place running.”
“Oh, Greel keeps it running,” Jessi said with a laugh, rising to greet us. “I just make sure the numbers add up at the end of each day.”
