Page 42 of Protective Pucking Orc

She bit her lip, her fingers tapping against her knee. “And that’s…permanent?”

“Yes.”

She exhaled, her gaze dropping to her lap. “That means you can’t get divorced? What if the Bond hurts?”

Oh gods. I squeezed my eyes shut, hearing the pain she wasn’t speaking. “Orcs…” I had to stop, clear my throat. “Orcs don’t think like that. We’re not built like that. Even if a Mated pair isn’t compatible, there’s only respect there, not cruelty. An orc would never hurt his Mate, not the way…”

When I trailed off, she whispered, staring down at the book, “The way Anthony did.”

Anthony. The bastard’s name was Anthony. Her ex-husband, Rosa’s father, the one who had made her bleed, and had likely done it before.

I swallowed, trying desperately to keep the rage from my voice. “Orcs aren’t like human men, Sofia. You’re safe with me.”

Your Mate.

I ached to tell her the truth, ached to pull her into my arms and whisper that she was mine, that I could feel the pull of her even now, like a current in my blood, like the tide dragging me toward the shore.

But I didn’t, because she was still scared.

Friday morning, I woke to the scent of coffee.

I blinked, disoriented, then pushed myself up, my muscles stiff from another night of restless sleep. The house was quiet, the only sound was the wind from the mountains and the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen.

I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a Henley, then followed the scent.

Sofia stood at the counter, her back to me, her dark hair pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder. She was wearing the flannel pants I’d bought her—the ones with the little moons—and one of my robes, the fabric swallowing her, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The coffee maker gurgled beside her, the rich aroma filling the kitchen.

She turned as I entered, a mug in her hand, the way she used to serve me at the diner—had that only been last week? She always knew my order, knew how I liked my coffee.

“Good morning,” she said softly.

Her voice was rough with sleep, warm with something that made my pulse stutter.

“Good morning,” I managed.

She held out the mug. “I made coffee.”

I took it, my fingers brushing hers. The contact sent a jolt through me, and I had to force myself not to tighten my grip, not to pull her closer.

“Thank you.”

She smiled, just slightly, then turned back to the counter. “And I, uh…warmed up one of the donuts you got yesterday.”

My chest tightened.

Friday is cheat day.

She remembered.

She knew me.

The realization was humbling and made my Kteer—caged and confused—purr with contentment.

I watched as she pulled a plate from the cabinet, her movements careful, her wrist still stiff. She set a donut on it—glazed, with sprinkles—and slid it toward me.

“Friday is cheat day,” she said, her lips quirking. Now that the bruising was fading, her smiles looked more natural.

She knew the way I ordered on Fridays. The way I let myself indulge, just a little. The way I⁠—