“Not a trophy,” he corrected, and something shifted in his expression, as though he’d decided before he’d even walked through the door. “Mate. My mate.”
His eyes met mine with an openness that was more unsettling than the intensity had been. “I expected compatibility markers. Numbers. Magic resonance. Data.” A pause, measured. “I did not expect you.”
I had absolutely no idea what to do with that sentence.
“I want to speak to a lawyer,” I said flatly. “And HR. Does this place have HR? It should have HR.”
“The weak fall so the strong may rise,” Rakthar said, not unkindly but with the absolute certainty of someone reciting a truth older than the building we were standing in.
He reached out one massive hand and, with an unexpected gentleness that somehow made it worse, tucked a curl behind my ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the shell of my ear. “And I am very, very strong, Aliana Mira.”
The way he said my name—like he was tasting it, savoring it—made something deep inside me tremble. It wasn’t quite fear, but something more complicated. More dangerous. And that terrified me more than his size, his scars, or his tusks ever could.
I was so screwed.
two
ALIANA
The officiant practically sprinted down the hallway, her sensible shoes squeaking against the polished floor as I struggled to keep up without looking like I was trying to run away from my betrothed.
Not that running away was ever an option. After all, where would I go?
The Sanctuary walls might protect humans from the dangers outside, but they also kept us neatly contained, like cattle in a pen. Premium, endangered cattle.
As if he knew this intrinsically, Rakthar’s heavy footfalls echoed like war drums, unhurried and confident.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. Or crying. Or both.
“Counselor Patel has been briefed on your unique situation,” the officiant said over her shoulder, not slowing her pace. She was practically speed-walking, which would have been funny if my entire life wasn’t currently imploding.
“Emergency adjustment meeting,” I repeated flatly, jogging to keep up with her Olympic-level power walk. “Is that bureaucratic speak for ‘sorry your fiancé got replaced by a walking mountain who could probably bench-press a car’?”
Rakthar chuckled behind me, the sound rumbling through my chest even from several feet away. It was deeply unfair that his laugh was so attractive. Like, illegal levels of unfair. “You have fire, little one. Good. Weak females bear weak offspring.”
I whipped around to glare at him, almost tripping over my own feet in the process. Smooth, Aliana. Very intimidating. “Okay, first of all, I am not having your offspring. I’m not having anyone’s offspring. I’m thirty, and I still can’t keep a succulent alive, and those things are literally designed for neglect.”
His golden eyes glinted with amusement that made me want to throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. And pointy. “We shall see.”
“‘We shall see’?” I sputtered.
Before I could launch into a detailed lecture about consent, autonomy, and how the patriarchy apparently transcended species—concepts that seemed increasingly theoretical within the Sanctuary system—we arrived at a door labeled “Cultural Integration Counseling.”
The officiant knocked twice, then scurried away as if her shoes were on fire.
Coward.
The door opened to reveal a woman with warm brown skin a few shades lighter than mine and thick black hair swept into an elegant twist that made my frizzy curls feel personallyvictimized. She wore the standard Sanctuary counselor uniform, but somehow made the utilitarian outfit look like it belonged in a fashion magazine.
Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Rakthar towering behind me, which, all things considered, was a completely reasonable reaction to seven feet of orc who looked like he moonlighted as a bouncer for the apocalypse. But she clearly had a lot of exposure to the unexpected, as her composed expression quickly returned.
Professional. I could respect that, even if I currently respected nothing else about this situation.
“Aliana Mira. Chief Rakthar of the Iron Fist Clan. Welcome to you both. I’m Counselor Anjali Patel.” Her voice was soothing, like warm honey, the kind of voice that probably talked people off ledges for a living. Which, given my current mental state, might be exactly what she was about to do. “Please, both of you, come in.”
Her office was calming. Soft lighting, comfortable furniture, walls painted in muted blues that were probably scientifically proven to lower blood pressure. A massive chair that looked specially reinforced sat opposite her desk, clearly meant for non-human occupants.
Rakthar squeezed himself into it, the wood creaking ominously under his weight. I half-expected it to collapse into splinters, but apparently the Sanctuary sprang for quality furniture when it came to keeping monsters comfortable. Good to know where the budget priorities were.
