“Can you stand?” he asked, his voice a rumble against my back.
I made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. “Can I stand? I’m not sure I remember what standing is. I think you’ve broken me. Congratulations, you’ve achieved what years of terrible gym classes could not.”
His chest vibrated with amusement against my spine. “I will take that as a no.”
Without waiting for me to prove myself wrong, which, let’s be honest, I absolutely would have tried and failed spectacularly,he scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing. Which was objectively false, because I definitely weighed something, but apparently orc strength operated on different physics than the rest of us.
“I will care for you now,” he declared, carrying me toward an adjoining chamber I hadn’t noticed before. Probably because I’d been too busy having my entire worldview rearranged along with my internal organs.
Steam billowed from an enormous stone tub that looked like it had been carved directly from the mountain itself. The water’s surface shimmered with iridescent oils that caught the light like liquid opals, creating patterns that seemed almost alive.
The scent hit me next. Wild mountain herbs, something musky and primal that made my hindbrain sit up and pay attention, and beneath it all, a hint of sweetness that made my nose tingle.
“My clan’s bonding oils,” Rakthar explained, noting my expression, which was probably somewhere between fascinated and mildly concerned. “Passed through generations. They will soothe your body and strengthen our connection.”
“Is this going to turn me into an orc?” I asked, only half-joking. “Because I feel like that’s something I should know before I get in. I have a very specific skincare routine.”
His laugh rumbled through his chest. “You will remain perfectly yourself, little mate. Though perhaps more relaxed.”
He lowered me into the water with a care that seemed incongruous with his massive frame and his earlier enthusiasm for rearranging my spine. The moment the oils touched my skin, I gasped. Heat bloomed everywhere the water touched, not burning but intensely warm, as if my skin had been awakened tonew sensations. It felt like every nerve ending was being gently massaged by tiny, very skilled hands.
“Oh,” I breathed, watching the oils swirl around my breasts, clinging to my dark brown skin in delicate patterns that seemed to shimmer and shift. “That’s okay, that’s actually incredible. I take back every sarcastic comment I was about to make.”
Rakthar’s mouth curved in satisfaction as he knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle and decorated with scars. “The oils recognize you as mine now.” He dipped his hand into the water, watching the patterns shift around his fingers. “They will mark you in ways only I can see.”
I should have found that possessive statement alarming. Should have launched into a lecture about autonomy and how I wasn’t property to be marked. But my body was too thoroughly blissed out to mount a proper feminist argument, and I was filing it away for later, when I had the cognitive function to be appropriately outraged.
The water lapped at my sensitized skin as Rakthar dipped a cloth into the tub and began to wash me, starting with my shoulders. His touch wasn’t sexual now, but reverent, like I was something precious that might break if handled roughly. Which, given recent events, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
The cloth slid across my collarbones, down between my breasts, tracing patterns that made my skin tingle. He washed every inch of me, murmuring words in his language that sounded like praise, or poetry, or possibly a recipe for stew—I had no idea, but the tone made my chest feel tight and warm.
When the cloth dipped between my legs, I tensed, still tender from our coupling. The soreness was a pleasant ache, but an ache nonetheless.
“Relax,” he said, gentler than I would have thought possible from someone who looked like he could bench-press a car. “I know where you ache. The oils will heal.”
He was right. The sting melted away almost immediately, replaced by a pleasant tingling sensation that spread through my core like warmth from good whiskey. By the time he helped me from the bath, my body felt renewed, humming with energy rather than exhaustion. I felt like I could run a marathon. Or at least walk to the kitchen without my legs giving out, which was a significant improvement.
Rakthar wrapped me in a soft cloth that was probably worth more than my entire wardrobe back at the Sanctuary, dabbing the moisture from my skin rather than rubbing. His massive hands moved with deliberate precision, treating me like something precious. Like art. Like I mattered.
No one had ever touched me with such focused attention before. It was disarming, this tenderness from a creature who could crush me without effort. My throat felt tight, and I blinked rapidly, refusing to cry over basic aftercare. I had standards. Low standards, apparently, but standards nonetheless.
“Sit,” he directed, guiding me to a low stool that had definitely been designed with someone much shorter than him in mind. From a pouch at his waist, he withdrew a carved comb that looked ancient, the handle worn smooth from generations of use. “I will dress your hair properly now.”
“You don’t have to—” I started, because this felt like too much, too intimate, too everything.
“I do.” His tone brooked no argument, and honestly, I was too curious to protest further. “You are my mate. Your appearance reflects on me, and mine on you. This is how we honor each other.”
I fell silent, surprised by the pleasure that unfurled in my chest as he began to comb through my damp curls. I’d expected him to struggle, most people did. But his fingers worked deftly, separating strands with a gentleness that suggested experience, beginning an intricate pattern of braids at my temple.
“These are warrior’s knots,” he explained, his breath warm against my ear as he worked, sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with being cold. “In my clan, only the most honored wear this pattern. It signifies strength and protection.”
“I’m not a warrior,” I said softly, watching in the mirror as the braids took shape. They were beautiful, intricate, nothing like the simple styles I usually managed. “I’m just me. I work in data analysis. I can’t even open jars without using one of those grippy things.”
His hands paused. “You survived the matching system. You faced the ceremony despite your fear. You took me into your body without hesitation.” He resumed braiding, his fingers surprisingly nimble for their size. “You are a warrior in ways that matter, Aliana. Strength is not only measured in battle.”
Something warm and dangerous unfurled in my chest at his words. Not lust this time, though there was definitely some of that lurking around the edges. This was something morecomplicated, more terrifying. Something that felt dangerously close to affection, to trust, to all those things I’d told myself I wouldn’t feel for an arranged match.
As he finished the last braid, securing it with a small carved bead that was warm to the touch, I gathered my courage.
