“Why did you really fight for me?” I asked, turning to face him, searching those golden eyes for answers. “At the matching. When there was the challenge. Why did you insist it be you?”
Rakthar’s expression grew serious, the ridges above his eyes drawing together in a way that made him look older, wearier. He cupped my face in one massive palm, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that made my breath catch.
“Because I saw your file,” he said. “And I wanted you safe.”
“My file?” I repeated. “You mean my compatibility profile?”
“Your compatibility tests. Your history.” His eyes, a startling amber in the dim light, held mine. “The match that was made for you, I saw it, and I knew it was wrong. That Urran was wrong for you.” He paused, and something moved across his face. “There are things about his clan, about that match, that you deserve to know. But not tonight.” His thumb traced my cheekbone again, deliberate, final. “Tonight is ours. I will not let what is rotten in their system reach into what we’ve built here.”
I searched his face. The door was closed. Whatever he knew, whatever he’d seen in that file that had made him invoke ancient treaty rights and fight a man he didn’t know, he was keeping it one more night.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Part of me wanted to push, to demand the full accounting right now. But I was also aware thatI was sitting in a magical bath, wearing warrior’s braids, with a bond mark glowing softly on my wrist—and that I was more exhausted and more settled than I had been in years. Whatever was rotten could be rotten tomorrow.
“Okay,” I said. “Not tonight.”
He exhaled, almost imperceptibly. “I will tell you everything. I promise you that.”
“I know,” I said, and was mildly surprised to find I meant it.
He rose, moving about the room with quiet purpose, arranging food that had been delivered while we bathed, pouring fragrant tea into carved cups that looked hand-made. I watched him from my stool, still in my wrapping cloth, the warrior’s braids cooling against my temples.
His movements were efficient, nothing wasted. The scars that crisscrossed his back told stories of battles survived, of pain endured and walked away from. The gentleness of his hands as he pressed a cup into mine spoke of restraint.
I wondered how long he had been making that choice.
“In my clan,” he said, settling beside me, close but not touching, “the bonding period is sacred. Three days where nothing is asked of the new pair except to learn one another.” His eyes met mine. “To build trust before testing its strength.”
“Is that what this is?” I gestured between us. “Building trust?”
“Yes.” Simple. Direct. “I claimed your body because our bond demanded it. Because the magic required completion.” He took a sip of his tea, eyes never leaving mine. “But I will earn the rest of you more slowly. Your trust. Your affection. Your heart.” A pause. “If you choose to give them.”
The distinction surprised me. This separation between physical claiming and emotional connection. I’d assumed he would simply take whatever he wanted. This patience was unexpected. This respect for my autonomy, even after I was legally and magically bound to him, was disarming.
“And if I just want to read books and pretend this whole situation isn’t completely insane?” I asked.
His smile revealed the points of his tusks, dangerous and somehow thrilling. “Then I will content myself with what you freely give. I will bring you books. I will give you space.” He reached out, tracing the warrior’s braid he’d woven into my hair with reverent fingers. “But I think—” his gaze met mine, seeing too much, “—that you are curious about what lies between us. As am I.”
I couldn’t deny it.
He reached then into the pouch at his waist and withdrew a collection of small objects, each no larger than my thumb. He set them on the low table between us with surprising care: some carved from wood, some from bone, some from materials I couldn’t identify. Each one was detailed with symbols and patterns so fine they must have required hours of meticulous work.
“You carve,” I said, picking one up—a stylized creature mid-leap, its lines flowing so cleanly it seemed impossible it had been made by hands as large as his.
“Protection charms,” he said. “Each with its purpose. Safe travel. Clear thought.” He selected a small piece carved from milky green stone, its surface etched with interlocking lines that seemed to shift as I looked at them. “Dreamless sleep.” He held itout and I took it; it sat warm and solid in my palm. “And this—” another piece, this one worn smooth from handling, the symbols dense and layered, “—fertility.”
I set the fertility charm down with a precision that was only slightly too careful. “Right. We’re just going to leave that one there.”
“There is one I have not yet carved,” he said, as if I hadn’t spoken. His eyes moved to my wrist, to the bond mark there. “A protection charm made specifically for you. For what you are taking on, coming into my world.” He looked back up. “I will make it before we leave the Sanctuary. You will have it before we go.”
Something about that—the matter-of-factness of it, the quiet promise—made my chest ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for. He hadn’t asked if I wanted it. He’d simply decided I would have it. And somehow, right now, in this room, that didn’t feel like the same thing as being claimed.
It felt like being taken care of.
“Okay,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended. “I’d like that.”
“Rest now,” he said, guiding me with a hand on my shoulder back toward the bed. “The bonding oils work through your system. When you wake, we will talk more. About the clan. About what comes next.” A beat. “About all of it.”
All of it. The door he’d held almost-but-not-quite shut.
