She looks uncomfortable. "Probably just routine. Making sure you're healthy."
"Lola."
She sighs. "The clan has noticed how Rakk handles you publicly. Some people were concerned he might be... going too far. Zurkar probably wanted to check."
"But he's not." The words come out before I can stop them. "He's not going too far. He's not even—" I cut myself off.
Not even what? Not even actually hurting me despite appearances? That makes no sense. Why would he bother with the performance if he's somehow preventing actual harm?
Lola watches me carefully. "Serah, are you saying?—"
"I'm saying nothing." I continue walking.
But the question follows me home. Sits heavy in my chest as I move through the empty dwelling. Lingers while I prepare food I barely taste and retreat to my small room.
Rakk returns late that evening. I hear him moving through the main space, his footsteps heavy with exhaustion. Water runs in the washroom. Eventually silence settles over the dwelling.
I lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling. Trace the patterns in the stone while my mind circles the same impossible observations.
No pain. No bruises. Just public humiliation that somehow leaves no physical trace.
And Rakk watching me with concealed panic every single time, like he's waiting for something terrible to happen.
Or maybe…maybe he's just afraid he's about to snap the final thread tethering us.
So am I.
15
RAKK
The soul-binding is destroying me from the inside out.
Every time I'm forced to grab Serah in public—every harsh grip on her arm, every rough handling that looks like dominance—the pain transfers to my body the moment I'm alone. The binding ensures she feels nothing. Takes nothing she doesn't choose. But the physical force I use? The potential damage? All of it flows directly into me instead.
My left shoulder throbs constantly from when I yanked her away from the central fire three days ago. Purple bruises bloom across my ribs from yesterday's incident when I pulled her too hard getting her away from gossiping females. My right wrist aches with deep bone-pain from this morning when I had to drag her through the plaza.
None of it shows on her skin. All of it marks mine beneath the armor and training wraps I never remove anymore.
But the physical pain is nothing compared to watching her flinch away from me. Seeing the hurt and betrayal in those amber-hazel eyes every time I'm forced to play this role. The way she looks at me now—like I'm exactly what she always feared orcs were.
I'm losing her. Already lost her, maybe. And I can't even explain why without revealing magic that would make my father strip my inheritance and put the clan in danger.
The training yard dust coats my throat. I force myself through another set of drills, though my body screams protest with every movement. Kaelen watches from across the sparring circle with concern etched into his features.
"You're favoring your left side."
"I'm fine."
"You look like death warmed over."
I pivot into a defensive stance that sends fresh agony through my shoulder. "Rough night."
"Every night is rough lately." He lowers his practice blade. "Talk to me."
What would I even say? That I'm bleeding myself dry trying to protect my mate while simultaneously driving her further away? That every breath feels like inhaling broken glass because I can feel her misery through the bond and there's nothing I can do about it?
"There's nothing to talk about." I attack with enough force to make him stumble back. "The mating is difficult. She'll adjust."
