14. Rok’nhar

FOURTEEN

Sure does feelgood to know I ain't going fucking crazy—not yet, at least.

I ease back into Grok'hal's throne, watching my royal counterparts charge at each other, getting closer and closer to the big melee and the end of the show. Just gotta sit here looking surly while I wait for my cue now, so I spread my knees wide, taking a long, sloppy slug from the cracked skull full of blood I'm holding. The skull's a prop and the blood's a special concoction I made for the stage—nothing fancy, just a slurry of bitterbeet pulp and cranberry juice—but it looks pretty damn brutal. Tastes pretty damn good too, but… it sure as hell ain't no peach.

Thought I'd lost my damn mind listening to that exchange about Grok'hal from backstage, convinced I must've cracked my neck the wrong way limbering up for the show, that Tyamatt knocked my fucking brain loose with that tackle earlier or some shit. Hearing her voice… well, I've been scenting wild oranges and warm vanilla left and right since she left last night, worrying my tusks and thinking I could still taste her on my lips. Wasn't much of a stretch to add hearing the familiar lilt of her voice to that list, too.

Hells, even looking straight at her hadn't cracked that denial I was clinging to. Not when Orlagh was the last elf I expected to find waiting for me out there tonight, not when I couldn't imagine this show being anything other than a big old pain in my ass. Told myself all kinds of things as I made my entrance, that it had to be my imagination, some flight of fancy or a trick of the light making whoever was sitting in my section shine like a sunbeam, like my sunbeam. But really now, who else could rival half a million dollars' worth of professional stage lighting and take my damn breath away while doing it?

No one but Orlagh, my mate, maybe. Mine.

And by the gods, the sight of her gorgeous face tilting up at me from down in that quaint little curtsy, mischief dancing like a devil in her eyes and waist tied up tighter than a pixie's? I'll remember it until my last breath.

No, not just remember it—savor it.

Savor the way the spotlight hit her long, slender neck and light met shadow across her shimmering skin. Savor how that bodice dipped so low, so fucking low, gods bless it, giving me a real fine look at her perfect, perky little tits all pressed together, teasing a peek at those dusky golden nipples with every one of her heaving breaths. Only thing I'll cherish more than the sight of her gazing up at me looking like a sweet little slice of medieval orc-bait is what came after, when she hiked up those skirts and presented me with that frilly little favor in front of a packed house, called Grok'hal her mate…

I shift in my seat, trying to get my prick to read the fucking room, or in this case, the fucking stadium. Cause while there's no doubt in my mind that Grok'hal would absolutely be sitting here getting harder than tempered steel at the thought of cracking open some skulls, I ain't a method actor and I certainly don't need to be doing any dick dances when Thandriel finally gives me my cue and I gotta get to my feet and get out there.

Sure does keep replaying in my mind, though. One word, just one. Echoing through me, vibrating clear down to my bones.

Mate.

Is this what Mama meant?

More of the slurry drips down my tusks as I drink deep, stealing a glance at Orlagh. She's perched on the edge of her table, nibbling on a corn rib and swinging her legs so hard they're kicking up those skirts I'm dying to get under. I have to keep myself from smiling as she waves away a bottle of mead from one of the servers, nearly pushing them over when Thandriel finally unseats Jessamine, corn rib unceremoniously flung to the side and forgotten as she tries to get a closer look.

It's a sight to be seen, that's for sure, especially for a first timer; Jessamine lifted straight up into the air, dangling on the end of a lance before being flung against the barrier in front of her section. I've learned a lot since stepping in as Haf's understudy, done a damn exhausting amount of training, but what those two pull off during that joust is a rare feat of showmanship, coordination, and stunt work.

Orlagh's on her feet, cursing and booing along with most of the crowd, caught up in the thrill of it all. I can't even be mad about her coming here on her own, not when she looks like she's having the time of her damn life. She must sense me staring at her though, because next thing I know, she's beaming that sunny smile straight at me. I'm lost in it for a moment. Lost in those violet eyes, too, all liquid and lively, clear as day to me even from all this distance. Makes it damn hard to stay in character when she smiles at me like that, and harder still when she blows me a kiss and hops back up on the table, hiking up her skirts with an impish little wink and blessing me with another gander at those heavenly golden thighs.

Fuck, but I love her.

I'm gonna spend the rest of my life loving her, doing anything and everything I can to keep her safe and happy and smiling like that.

I think… I think I finally understand why Mama got her tusks in such a twist after telling me that her and daddy hadn't been sealed. I'm sure as hell feeling like I don't need a mossy old stone to tell me Orlagh's my mate, not when every inch of my bulky body is screaming it at me. Nothing could shake me loose from her, nothing—not even her running in the other direction when she finds out what we gotta do if she is my mate, how we gotta stand at that mossy old stone back home to keep me from becoming a thoughtless, violent jackass like the one she's been trying to get away from.

But entertaining the idea of being my mate for real, learning how it's looking like we're gonna need to seal ourselves back in Brok'hal sooner than later to be sure? Might just be too heavy, too fast, too much—especially now that every day feels like another one closer to a confrontation with those fuckers. And after all the damage they've done, the violence they've threatened? It'd be all too easy to snap like my daddy did and let that rage take over. Hells, even right now I'm feeling like I'd fucking welcome it if I weren't so worried about those dogs hurting Orlagh.

But no matter what happens, no matter what she chooses for herself once she's got a grip on what we got between us, what we might have, I'll always have tonight, have that moment where she claimed me—well, Grok'hal—as hers, as her mate.

Her voice is still echoing in my mind as Thandriel turns his direwolf about, pumping his lance in the air to the chorus of cheers and boos erupting throughout the arena. He points the lance at me, head so high it's looking like he'd drown in a drizzle. I tear my eyes away from Orlagh to stare down into the cracked skull I'm cupping, watching the blood swirl around as I laze on my throne.

"Oh, now you're just stalling. I suppose I would be too if I were sitting on that filthy, worthless throne. Does it remind you of the dirt floor you were born on, orc?"

The warriors around me start to grumble and swear in Orcish, shouting back and forth with the Elven assassins gathered at the front of his section and peppered strategically throughout the arena. I meet Thandriel's gaze, eyes narrowing as I take a long, slow draft from my skull.

"Come now, Grok'hal," he sighs in exasperation, rolling his eyes, "don't dawdle. I'll happily insult you all night, but the sooner we start this melee, the sooner I win. The sooner I win, the sooner I lay claim to the horde you so foolishly wagered..."

A slow, mirthless laugh rolls through me then, the rest of the orcs joining in and clanging their weapons on their shields—the cue before the cue that we're all ready to go. But instead of spitting at the ground between us and launching right into his last victory lap, Thandriel laughs along with us, arching a brow at me, well, archly.

"…and that peach of yours, too."

The laughter dies in my throat, mouth dry, skin hot. Thandriel smirks in exaggerated satisfaction and turns away, spurring his mount into a loping sort of trot while he continues to play to the crowd, circling around the field to mock the unhorsed human queen and her knights before gearing up to make a triumphant run back to his end of the tilt. A taste of that rage I've been tussling with bubbles up as the fantasy takes over for a moment, imagining that my pal Thandriel really is the prideful, pompous King Phandelvedere, that the stupid prick just insulted me and my mother and every other orc in my horde—insulted my mate.

A feral kind of growl rumbles in my chest as I unclasp the bearskins at my back, rising slowly and letting them fall to the throne behind me. I'm breathing hard, wild oranges and warm vanilla taking over my senses once more as I hold out a commanding, expectant hand. Without so much as a word, one of the orcs places my greataxe in my open palm, the frilly little remnants of that garter tickling my fingers, reminding me of what I got waiting for me at the end of this show.

Once my grip on that weapon tightens, all the orcs take their cue, carrying out unspoken orders: shouts become whispers, weapons and shields slow their songs, fresh warpaint is streaked across faces. They splinter off into two groups, crouching low and slinking off the sides of the raised platform while the audience watches with bated breath, shouting warnings at openly unsuspecting knights and assassins milling about.

Drums punctuate each one of my determined, heavy footfalls as I blaze a steady trail over to the overtly oblivious Thandriel, still vamping and playing up the tension for the crowd. Orlagh's back on her feet, honed in on every move I make with that sweet strawberry flush staining her cheeks and neck. My own neck goes hot again, ears too, and then suddenly I'm remembering those old feelings of shame about how tight these pants are, about the way the softer parts of me move when I do under this harsh, unforgiving spotlight.

Being perceived has always been… overwhelming during a show, even if it is fun as hell to be a part of. The same old record that's played in my head my whole damn life tends to start up, spinning around worries and shame over being too big, too clumsy, too soft; always too much, and somehow never enough. It's trying to play now, bless it, but… well, tonight the shame don't seem to stick. Tonight it's too busy skipping over the scent of her skin and the light shining all around her, tripping over that word mate still echoing in my mind. Tonight I'm being perceived by someone in the crowd who likes what they see, who sees… me, just me, and not something that needs fixing.

And just like that… shame ain't got no business here.

A wicked smile curls around my tusks as I close the distance between me and Thandriel, shoulders a bit straighter, chin high. I do believe I got what qualifies as a swagger about me as I spin my greataxe in one hand, that skull full of stage blood still cradled in the other, ready to go.

"The horde will never belong to a foolish, arrogant elf," I bare my tusks, yanking the reins away from Thandriel with the haft of my greataxe and pulling the direwolf—Sugar, sweetest beast in the place—down into a submissive bow, covertly shaking a bit of honeyed boar out of my bracer for her. He drops his lance in feigned shock, pretending to scramble for control as he unhooks himself from the seat in preparation for the next bit.

Oh, but that rage is still simmering inside me, all these little improved lines and Orlagh's garter tied around the hilt of my weapon sweeping even me up in the fantasy of it all—and that fantasy sure is gonna make this next part sweet.

"And neither will my mate."

The spotlights converge on me as I extend my drink out in Orlagh's direction—and I'll be damned, but she don't miss a beat cause she's raising that jeweled goblet right back at me—before smashing that cracked skull into the side of Thandriel's head with a roar, shattering it on impact and sending him sliding off his mount. Shards of alchemical plaster fly every which way, slurry spraying into my open mouth and all over my bare chest as I let out a true war cry, prompting the orcs stationed around the arena to follow suit before launching into action; time to give the people what they came for, show Orlagh what all the fuss is about.

Sugar rears up, white paws now stained crimson as they thud onto my shoulders, snapping maw getting real up close and personal. I get flashes of Orlagh shining in my peripheral vision, eyes wide and bright, those delicate hands pressed together at the base of her throat; suppose if she had pearls, she'd be clutching ‘em. Two orcs run up and take the direwolf's reins, trained animal handlers making a show of bringing Sugar to heel while actually sneaking her more cubes of honeyed boar. Damn wolf has just as much of a sweet tooth as I do.

I take up the greataxe with both hands once I'm free, heaving it over my head so the iron catches the light before bringing it down once, twice, and a third time on the Elven king at my feet, hitting every squib hidden beneath that silver chestplate and sending spurts of stage blood flying off in every direction, coating the both of us.

Thandriel puts on a hell of a show, always does, giving me a small nod before scrambling away from me, coughing and flailing all the while.

"Coward," I snarl, taking my cue and dropping my greataxe. I grab at his ankle, yanking him back before grabbing him roughly by the hair with both hands, waiting for his own hands to grip onto mine—both to bear his weight and give me a go-ahead squeeze—before bodily dragging him toward his section and sending him soaring into the barrier with a roar of triumph.

Hank screams, that ridiculous moonstone codpiece he insists on wearing flashing in the spotlight, before throwing himself on top of his royal lover for one last dramatic kiss, stirring up the crowd into even more of a frenzy as the action picks up all around.

As soon as Thandriel goes limp in Hank's arms, I duck down, just in time for two chakrams to go whizzing over my head, right on cue. The Elven assassins to my left and right catch each other's weapons, twirling them around long, practiced fingers as they stalk around me. I turn in place, making a show of being surrounded, weaponless. The melee is in full effect across the tournament field now, ambushed elves and humans battling it out with the orcs and each other, a true triumph of controlled, choreographed chaos that's unlike anything else in Galtree's pleasure district.

I know Jessamine—Queen Catherine—is limping her way across the field now, clutching the big old dent in her middle as she cuts through the chaos, striking down elf and orc alike while she makes her way toward her horse, the piebald neighing and rearing back, shaking her mane in practiced agitation.

The elves circling me are almost back to their original positions, and I take a deep breath in, letting the clamor of the crowd fade, focusing.

Godsdamn, that shame might be long gone, but my nerves are threatening to shake me up right now. This trick wasn't easy to get the hang of, and if I were to fucking miss it, of course it'd be on a night when I got my tangerine dream here. It's so quick I gotta go on instinct, no way to do a count, no signals, and no room for hesitation.

I breathe out, moving past it, reminding myself that I've rehearsed this minor feat of athleticism over and over again, as recently as tonight, and that I haven't missed it in months. If I do miss it, I can play it up. We got alternate blocking planned out just in case, and Orlagh likely won't be any the wiser.

They let fly at the same time and I pause half a beat, waiting for that telltale whir to sound just about close enough. Both hands shoot up, snatching the rings out of midair right as they cross over my head, and then I'm roaring, doing cartwheels in my mind around a bunch of fuck yeahs and atta-boy's cause I nailed it, in front of my girlfriend, my mate, maybe. I fucking nailed it.

I steal a glance at Orlagh as I get to spinning them around my own fingers, doing a bit of vamping myself, I suppose. The sight of her plush lips parted in shock and those delicate fingers all loose and dancing up her neck makes me stand just a bit straighter, a true smile curving around my tusks just for her.

The assassins make their moves, one jumping on my back and the other gunning it toward my weapon. I let both chakrams fly, hitting my marks right on the back of the elf that's sliding toward the greataxe. Squibs bust and a fresh, sticky spray of stage blood paints my chest and face, the ground between us. I reach over my shoulder with both hands, grabbing the elf on my back around the waist, making sure they're holding onto my forearm tight and waiting for that go-ahead squeeze before I bring them down and over my knee, looking every bit like I just broke their back.

"GROK'HAL!" Jessamine roars, gripping that horse's reins like they're the only thing keeping her standing, flamberge hanging limply in one hand as she glares at me. "What you and your orcs are doing is barbaric, unsanctioned, forbidden. This is a tournament, there are rules!"

I drop the elf hanging limp in my arms and laugh, dragging my fingers through the blood on my chest and flinging them out toward the crowd before taking up my discarded greataxe. "Humans and elves play games of war… but there is no honor in that for an orc. No honor… and no fun."

We come to a clash in the center of the ring, her bearing down on me from horseback, sweeping her blade and circling the piebald around me. The sound of clashing steel rings through the stadium as flamberge meets greataxe, again and again, the advantage of her height equalling our playing field and making for a hell of a show.

After she hits the last of my squibs and Grok'hal's covered in blood from tusks to toes, I throw down my greataxe, staggering around in a circle before planting my feet on the ground right in the middle of the tilt, square in the center of the tournament field. Jessamine circles around the arena, jagged sword flashing in the circling spotlights where it ain't stained red, a preemptive victory lap. She stops and rears back on her mount in front of her section, the cue to the animal handlers behind me, then kicks the piebald to a gallop when she gets the go-ahead. I bend my knees, breathing hard, focused.

Nothing quite like staring down a charging warhorse and not scrambling aside for dear life. Not so bad as a herd, though, and we had one full of big wooly coursers that roamed the hills back home, passed along our property once or twice a season. I loved chasing after those wild horses, sneaking ‘em apples and oats. This… well, this ain't nothing like that.

I launch myself into the air just as they pass, catching Jessmine's forearm while it's still in a backswing, pulling her down off the horse and slamming her down onto the ground. Dust goes flying up around us as we roll forward, audience going nuts. I get to my feet and give her a stage-kick, rolling her over and forward into a waiting spotlight. Two whistles sound off, letting me know the horse is well in hand and she's safe down there on the ground. I bend my knees once more, breathing hard, clutching my side, and make a show of taking up my greataxe one last time. I know the orc warriors who ain't taking care of our animals are behind me on that platform, dragging that massive skull throne into the center of the dais and smashing the other two to bits. My hand slides up the haft of my weapon, bringing it straight up into the air as I bare my tusks, breathing hard, the crowd reaching a fever pitch as the orcs get our entire section—and some of the other two, if I'm not mistaken—chanting, "For the horde, for the horde!"

That lace catches on my sticky pauldron, still a frilly little reminder of the violet eyes I got on me as I deal the final blow, getting one last face full of stage blood before the lights in the house go completely black.

When the lights come up again, we're all in place on the dais. I'm on the throne with my cloak back on, Thandriel and Jessamine crowned once more and on either arm beside me, and the rest of the performers are all on their feet, lining up and taking turns getting their due from a most invigorated and appreciative audience. When my turn comes around… I hear whistles, and for the first time ever, I think I may have gotten more cheers than both of my royal counterparts combined.

Orlagh's standing on the barrier after the music dies down and the lights go up, crowd starting to disperse. Before I know it I got one foot going in front of the other, body on the move before my brain is, pulling me toward her like a magnet. Slow at first, then faster. Takes everything I have not to burst into a full on sprint as she bites back that sunny smile, twisting back and forth so those full skirts get to swishing around her as I approach.

"Chief Grok'hal, defender of peaches," she giggles, a sweet little sound that makes my chest feel tight and full. Those smooth, golden arms slide around my neck and pull me close, not even caring that I'm still all sticky with slurry and stage blood.

"Oh shit, your dress, that hair. You look too damn good to get all covered in this shi?—"

Words fail me when she presses herself against me even tighter, making a little trail of sweet, sticky kisses all across my lips, my tusks, my jaw, my neck. I give up, give in, gooseflesh all over me and prick about a hair trigger away from convincing me I should bend her over this barrier and claim her like Grok'hal would.

"You were incredible," she brushes her lips against my ear, breath warm and welcome with each whispered word. "But… I do have to warn you about something."

Every muscle in my body tenses up. Warn me? Did something else happen, something with Wolf? I try to pull back to look at her, confusion and concern knitting my brows together, getting my heart to thudding, but she holds on fast, lips still pressed to the shell of my ear.

"You know that bearskin you've got on? Well, your mate is positively desperate for you to fuck her on it."

I groan as I close my eyes, burying my face in the crook of her neck, grabbing full handfuls of ass and skirts as I pull her closer, wanting nothing more than to do just that. "Fuck, Orlagh I…"

"And…" she whispers, lips following my ear as I kiss that soft, sweet skin along her slender neck. "Just in case you couldn't tell… I am so, so in love with you, Rok'nhar."

There's a roaring, rushing sound in my ears as I freeze mid-kiss, knees feeling like they're about to buckle. Never seen the ocean up close before, but there is no doubt in my mind that this is what getting hit by a wave must feel like, what getting swallowed up and tossed about by something inevitable and beautiful and strong can do to a creature. The water's warm and wonderful and wild, just like Orlagh, pulling me in like the tides, pulling me under.

"You're…" I swallow, mouth dry as parchment and voice quiet, small when she pulls back and meets my gaze. "Really?"

"Yes really. How could I not be?" she laughs, cupping my face in those delicate hands with tears glistening in her eyes. "You are… perfect. Not just perfect for me, Rok—perfect. You're everything that I hoped to find out in the big, wide world; more, even. I love you, Rok."

The fabric of that bodice catches on my rough hands as I slide them up her back, fingers closing around her tiny little waist, trying to remember how to breathe and speak and stand at the same damn time as I search her eyes, drink in every drop of this moment.

"Oh, but I love you, Orlagh, so godsdamn much. From the moment those elevator doors opened, the day you moved in… something inside me knew right then—right then—that I wouldn't really be living my life till I had you in it, that life wouldn't be worth living without you in it. But… well, fuck, there are things we still gotta sit down and talk about proper, things you don't?—"

"Oh, for sure. Mm-hmm. Lots to sort out: I was wrong about my psycho ex, there's this new sort of continuous glowing going on, my sister's in town after I drunk-texted her paragraphs of insults last night, and of course there's the morally questionable but unspeakably hot display of physical prowess Grok'hal just displayed, all for a little old mate like me…"

"A little old mate like you," I chuckle. "See, that's what I'm talking about, sunshine, that's what we gotta talk about?—"

"And we will, soon. Tonight. We're going to do a lot of talking. Talking on top of talking. Not now, though, because now? Now I'm really, really dying to disappear into a dark corner and touch you, kiss you, claim you…"

She crushes her lips against mine before I can protest any further, hands tangled in the hair at the base of my neck. Seems I can't wrap my arms tight enough around her, and when her lips part and she moans against my mouth, the flat of her tongue licking a stripe up my tusk, all rational thought leaves my mind. The need to strip her bare and feel her shimmering skin sliding against my own crashes down on me, another wave, a fucking tidal wave and one that makes me feel so godsdamn elated and so… so incredibly fucking turned on. All I know is I gotta get my hands under this bundle of skirts, get them on her skin, get my lips on her skin, my prick inside her—now.

I'm gonna get hell from Mila, but… fuck it. I can't really give a shit about rules right now, especially ones the rest of the cast and crew seem to break every chance they get. I ain't got time to walk her around to the backdoor and clear it, let her backstage proper, I've got to get her up to my dressing room.

"Alright, peaches. You're comin' with me."

Orlagh lets out a surprised little shriek as I scoop my forearm under her ass and toss her over my shoulder, putting a hand on her lower back to steady her as I press down, holding her solidly in place. I know it's loud, know that what crowd is left and paying attention is losing their damn minds, but all I can hear is the sound of her heartbeat thumping in time with mine as that wave of need pushes me forward—that and those three little words echoing in my mind.

"You knowyou can put me down now, right?"

Orlagh kicks her little feet, those skirts flouncing in my face, the scent of her cunt so godsdamn intoxicating that it's getting harder to string more than a handful of words together at once. Harder still not to throw her down right here and now and rut her in front of the entire damn company, and hardest of all to keep myself from getting fucking hard.

"Don't think I can, sunshine," I say, nodding sheepishly at an open-mouthed Mila as I attempt to force my way around cast and crew alike, a whole different kind of controlled chaos in full swing now that the show is over. "You show up looking like a three tiered cake, all iced and ready to eat, dangling yourself in front of me like the sweet morsel you are, and then you go and tell me you love me? I've had this dream before. I gotta get you upstairs and make sure you're real."

"You're not dreaming, Rok, I promise."

"See now, that's what you said in the last dream."

"Fine. The view is nice, anyway," she sighs, kicks getting lazy, playful. "Ooh, I think I see someone making out with one of those fae acrobats in the rigging! I'm picking up some real horny vibes around here."

"Well, you ain't wrong," I shift her from one shoulder to the other, groaning in frustration as I back up to make a path for the big ass backdrop a couple of minotaurs are lugging through, blocking my path. "Can't keep track of who's fucking who, changes so damn often. Management turns a blind eye as long as no one leaves any puddles behind."

Stage crew has a light teardown and buildup in progress, regular working hands as well as a couple specialized wizards helping out with minor repairs, scenic crew bringing out some other set pieces for the alternate troupe tomorrow. Most of tonight's performers and servers are here milling about the costume mages, waiting to get hit with a couple cleaning spells before heading off to the communal dressing rooms below, making it real hard for anyone to get anywhere till it clears out.

Mila tried avoiding all this post-show chaos by having the theater install those spendy charmed orbs like the ones we got up in the crown suites—company nickname for the six tiny little private closets way, way up high that royals use—but Yar'thak refused, only putting them in the other headliner's rooms once Haf complained about Thandriel and Hank busting in to use his. I don't think Haf minded the sharing so much, just got his cock in a twist cause they took special care to pop in whenever he'd already started fucking whoever'd met him backstage out of the audience that night.

Hells, if this traffic jam lasts much longer I may have to beg a spell off one of those mages for myself, Orlagh too. I was so pissed at Haf's no-show and apparent refusal to return even a single one of my damn texts that I left everything in his dressing room the way I'd found it—which is to say, looking like a fucking hurricane rolled through it—and I don't need to waste another chunk of time tearing through that sty looking for his damn orb.

"You're not supposed to bring guests through my arena, Rok'nhar," Mila yells, shaking her head at me as she helps Pete out of his helm, "no matter how gorgeous and flirty they are. Round back like everyone else, next time. I mean it!"

Personally, I think letting me throw my girlfriend over my shoulder and take her up to my room should be a well-earned perk of the job, especially considering how many tickets they'd have to refund without me, but… tonight I don't need anything else keeping me from getting upstairs, and I've never been the type to backtalk a boss, anyhow. I gotta get Orlagh up to my dressing room, gotta taste her, gotta tell her she's my mate for real… so I stop and take my tongue lashing like a good orc, waiting for the stage crew to finish lugging shit back and forth, resigned to the delay with a sigh. It's hard to get through the disorderly queue and up that spiral iron staircase to Haf's dressing room when it's just me, so of course it's even harder now that I've got Orlagh slung over my shoulder like a sack of sweet potatoes and my prick fixin' to bust out of these breeches.

Several folk turn and gawk at us while we wait, a lot of appreciative whistles and waggling eyebrows as I spot an opening and try to squeeze us through the crowd, only to get waylaid by scenic crew again. We're stopped up—right near Mila too, damnit—and squished between Erd'gnal, one of the animal handlers from my group who's already got two turkey legs in his hand, and one of the newer serving gals, can't remember her name but that cheap soapy perfume she wears makes my nose twitch. Both of ‘em are sneaking glances at the two of us, mostly at Orlagh, I'm sure, mesmerized by the way she dangles or maybe just drawn into that sunny smile I know she's beaming around the place. Can't say I blame ‘em, not when I know better than anyone what a godsdamn bombshell she is. Plus, I know she likes to be seen, and I guess… well, I guess I enjoy seeing her get seen as much as she enjoys feeling all eyes on her, and certainly enjoy being seen alongside her. Found that out during that OnlyFannies stream, much to my surprise.

And now that I think on it… being more than half-convinced she may be my mate hasn't changed that. Always assumed that jealousy and mating bonds went hand in hand thanks to my family history, the way folks talk about bonds back home. Thought I'd had that confirmed after everything Mama told me this week, but… it still really, really fucking turns me on when the world's taking note of the way she shines, watching the way I make her shine—as long as the world keeps it's hands to it's-fucking-self, that is.

Does that mean… she isn't my mate?

"Orlagh!" Pete waves at us once Mila's got him out of his helmet, turning to look back at her while pointing over to us. "That's Rok's girlfriend, the neighbor? Give him a break, sis."

"Fine, fine," Mila grumbles through a tired half-smile. "Nice to meet you, Orlagh, but try not to break my rules again."

"Sure," Orlagh laughs. "But I'm his mate, remember? Gotta be able to make an exception for that."

Mate.

Fuck, but I have to force myself not to flip up her skirts and bury my face in her cunt, right here, right now. That one word don't just echo in my mind anymore when she says it—it burns, setting fire to my thoughts, my skin, my blood, all warm and wild and wicked. I'm reborn in it, that demand taking over, senses all heightened as I drown in her scent, in the profoundly sweet bit of her beneath all the bright citrus and warmth. Flashes of her shining like a sunbeam as she comes start playing through my mind: her on her knees in the middle of our bed, throwing her head back, hands in her tangerine hair with that cunt plopped right down on my face; those golden fingers of hers slipping off the slick tiles in the shower while my own fingers slide deep inside her, making those thick thighs quiver; and of course, that perfect ass turning red as a summer strawberry under my palm while she's bent over the back of my couch, one leg up on the edge, my prick bottoming out again and again, her throaty moans getting louder, higher, incoherent.

Does this mean… does this mean she is my mate?

"Anyway, great show, man," Pete calls out, forcing me back to the present with a long-distance fist bump across the room before pointing at Orlagh. "And you too! Haven't seen the crowd cheer for Grok'hal that much in a long time."

"That's true," Mila murmurs, "I guess I can make an exception for our savior and his—oh, goddamn it…" She grabs her headset just as the crowd moves again, grumbling loudly about a soundboard malfunction as she shoves Pete's helm back into his hands and stalks off, back to solving problems from every angle, as usual.

I force a breath out through my tusks, shifting in place as that first backdrop goes back to where it came from, traffic at a standstill yet again. Orlagh strikes up a conversation with that new server, wiggling that sweet ass and trying to slide down off my shoulder, but I hold fast, keeping an eye out for my next window of opportunity to get us through this crowd. All I know is I've got to get her alone and naked and seated soundly on my prick, and before that I gotta tell her that almost all signs are pointing to her being my mate, that I would destroy an entire fucking kingdom for her, and that I may not have a choice in the matter unless we get sealed.

With the way she keeps joking about being mated to Grok'hal… what the hells is she gonna say when she finds out how right she might be?