I perched on the edge of a smaller chair, my back rigid, hands clasped in my lap to keep them from shaking. Or from makingrude gestures. Could go either way, honestly. “There’s been a mistake.”
Counselor Patel settled behind her desk, folding her hands in a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring. It wasn’t. “I understand this is unexpected, Aliana. Let me explain what’s happened.”
“Unexpected,” I repeated, my voice climbing an octave. “That’s one word for it. ‘Catastrophic’ is another. ‘Lawsuit-worthy’ is two words, but I think it applies. ‘What-the-actual-hell’ is four words and also applies.”
She tapped her tablet, and a holographic display appeared between us, showing two orc profiles side by side. One was Urran—the match I’d prepared for, with his modest tusks and placid expression that screamed, “I’ve never had an adventure and I don’t want one.”
The other was Rakthar, looking even more imposing in his official registry image, battle scars prominently displayed like badges of honor. His profile picture looked like it belonged on a “Wanted” poster. Possibly for crimes against reasonable life choices.
“Urran was indeed your initial match,” Counselor Patel began in her professional, soothing voice that was starting to grate on my nerves. “However, three days ago, he was challenged by Rakthar in a combat trial—an ancient tradition still honored in certain orc clans and recognized under the Monster Accord.”
“A combat trial? For me?” I felt sick. My stomach was doing acrobatics. Competitive acrobatics. “People fought over me like I’m some sort of prize? Like a—a limited edition gaming console on Black Friday?”
“Not people,” Rakthar corrected, and I could hear the smile in his voice without even looking at him, which was infuriating. “Orcs. And it wasn’t much of a fight.” He flexed one massive hand, examining his knuckles with casual pride as if he were admiring a fresh manicure. “Took less than two minutes.”
I turned to stare at him, my brain struggling to process this information. “You beat up my fiancé in under two minutes?”
“He was not worthy of you.” Rakthar said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he was explaining that water was wet or that the sky was blue. “He did not even draw blood.”
“That’s—that’s not the flex you think it is!” I sputtered, gesturing wildly enough that my curls bounced. “That’s assault! That’s—Counselor, that’s illegal, right? Please tell me that’s illegal. Please tell me there’s paperwork for this. There has to be paperwork.”
“According to orcish tradition, which is recognized under Section 47.3 of the Monster Accord, Urran lost his bond rights when he was defeated in honorable combat.” Counselor Patel’s voice was careful, measured—the voice of someone navigating a minefield one step at a time. “The challenge was conducted in front of Sanctuary witnesses and registry officials. Every protocol was followed.”
I stared at her. “There’s a protocol for this.”
“There is.”
“Of course there is.” I dropped my head into my hands. “Of course the Sanctuary has a protocol for ‘your match got punched out of the picture.’ That’s exactly the thing they’d have a form for.”
“Form 7-C, actually,” Patel said, with the faintest hint of apology. “Interspecies Mate Displacement via Honorable Combat.”
“Oh, fantastic. I’m a Form 7-C. That’s exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up.” I wiped my face with my hands. “Change it back. Please.”
I hoped my tone and expression conveyed both my desperation and my willingness to escalate this to whoever was in charge. The president. The UN. God. Anyone. “I consented to match with Urran, not him.” I jabbed a finger toward Rakthar without looking at him, because looking at him made my brain do weird things.
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Counselor Patel said, her voice gentle but firm in that way that meant she was about to deliver bad news. “The Monster Accord recognizes and respects the cultural practices of all signatory species, including traditional mate-claiming rituals. Section 47.3 specifically addresses the transfer of bond rights following an honorable challenge. Rakthar’s claim is entirely legitimate under that provision.”
“I don’t care about Section 47.3!” My voice rose to a pitch that probably only dogs could hear. “I care that I’m being passed around like a—like a hot potato! A very confused, very angry hot potato who did not sign up for this!”
Rakthar’s massive fist slammed down on the armrest of his chair, causing both me and Counselor Patel to jump approximately three feet in the air. The wood cracked ominously. “Urran was unworthy,” he growled, all trace of amusement gone from his face, replaced by something fierce and possessive that made my stomach do a weird flip. “He claimed to want you, yet he could not even defend his right tocourt you. Would you have a mate who cannot protect what he values?”
“That’s not the point,” I hissed, crossing my arms over my chest.
“It is exactly the point.” Rakthar leaned forward, his golden eyes blazing with an intensity that pinned me to my seat. “In my clan, we do not take mates lightly. A male who cannot defend his claim has no right to make one. Urran folded like wet parchment.”
“Now I’m back to being a trophy.” I said that to no one in particular, even as some traitorous part of my brain whispered that being fought over was kind of hot. I told that part of my brain to shut up and sit in the corner.
Something shifted in Rakthar’s expression—a softening around his fierce eyes, a slight tilt of his head as he studied me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “You are not a trophy,” he said, his rumbling voice unexpectedly gentle. “You are a treasure. And I do not let treasures fall into unworthy hands.”
The sincerity in his voice caught me completely off guard. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to respond. My brain was making the dial-up internet sound.
Counselor Patel cleared her throat, clearly sensing an opportunity to move this conversation forward before I could recover. “Perhaps we should discuss the practical implications of this adjustment. Rakthar’s profile is quite different from Urran’s.”
“Different how?” I asked warily, not taking my eyes off Rakthar. “Does he also have a side hustle as a warlord? Is that going to come up?”
She swiped through several screens on her tablet with practiced efficiency. “Well, for one, Rakthar isn’t an agricultural specialist. He’s a warrior, specifically a clan protector. His dwelling isn’t a farmstead but a stronghold in the mountains of the Iron Fist territory.”
“A stronghold,” I repeated slowly, testing the word. “Like a castle? Are we talking about a castle? Because I feel like that’s information that should have been disclosed upfront.”
