2. Torain
CHAPTER TWO
TORAIN
M y whole world shifted on a harsh puff of air.
One heartbeat, I was just picking up my latest order of woodworking books. They weren’t the same as training under a master carver, but they pushed my skills nonetheless. And with my brother still finding his footing as chief and mated orc, I couldn’t even think of leaving for an apprenticeship.
Then her scent hit me—cinnamon and vanilla and mine .
Mate.
The word thundered through my blood like an avalanche. My fingers itched to touch her, to verify she was real and not another lonely fantasy. To see if her skin was as soft as it looked.
Damn. How many years had it been? Eighteen? Nineteen? She’d grown into those eyes that used to peek over the top of the massive books she picked after blazing through the summer reading program’s selections.
“You two know each other?” Molly’s gaze bounced between us like a tennis match.
“Yes,” I said.
Carrie’s words trampled over mine. “Old acquaintances.”
Gone was the quiet girl who shared her cookies, though that stubborn chin lift hadn’t changed. The severe bun only drew attention to the elegant line of her throat. And that snappy little skirt and blazer combo...
I wanted to mess up every perfectly arranged inch of her.
“Right…” Molly dragged out the word. “Well, your order isn’t in yet. But Carrie here might?—”
“It’s Carissa,” she bit out again.
I blinked, struggling to process. Carrie—no, Carissa —was my mate. How many nights had I swiped through MythMatch, searching for what my brother found? And now here she stood, glaring like she wanted to stab someone with her stilettos. Probably me, given how I stared.
“Carissa.” I tried the name out, tasting its shape. Precise. Elegant. Nothing like the mess surrounding us. “It suits you.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, like she was trying to decide if I was mocking her. I wasn’t.
“I apologize for the delay with your order, Torain. Things are a bit...” Her fingers fluttered over a stack of papers. “...disorganized at the moment.”
“No rush.” I leaned against the counter, trying to appear casual while my entire being screamed to be closer. “You need time to get caught up, that’s fine.”
She spun toward Molly, who still watched the exchange with rapt interest. “Put down the coffee and help me clear space for seating.” Carissa’s voice cracked like a whip. “We can shift the couches, but these books need to be shelved first. And every night before we close, yes?”
“Jana wasn’t kidding about the micromanaging.” Molly’s grumble carried perfectly to my sensitive ears. But she grabbed a pile of books and slouched upstairs, leaving her iced coffee sweating rings on the counter.
I trailed after Carissa as she moved through the store like a tiny tornado of organization in heels, straightening books and gathering scattered papers. The tight skirt restricted her stride, forcing smaller steps that only hypnotized me with the sway of her hips. My fingers itched to grab them, to feel if they fit my hands as perfectly as instinct screamed they would.
“I can’t believe—” I caught myself before my voice could boom through the quiet store again. I cleared my throat and forced my eyes up to safer territory. “You’re actually here. Last I heard you were in Seattle?”
“Yes, well.” She straightened her blazer, and my hands clenched with the need to pull her close. “Things change.”
Yeah, things changed. Father’s empty chair at the dinner table. The way Osen sometimes stared at where he’d stand to think through the latest problem the clan laid at his feet. The half-finished carvings in his workshop I couldn’t bring myself to complete.
“I heard about your aunt,” I said softly. “I’m sorry. Mags meant a lot to this place.”
Her hands stilled on a leather-bound volume. “Thank you. I... I should have been here sooner.”
“Sometimes timing just doesn’t work out.” The words tasted bitter with memory. The letter from Master Iazra still sat unopened in my workshop drawer, arrived the day after we burned Father’s body. “The plans that seemed so important the morning my father died were forgotten by that night.”
“Oh.” She glanced up, genuine sympathy softening her edges for a moment. “Torain, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged, trying to ignore how my name sounded on her tongue. “Things change, right?”
She hummed agreement. The silence stretched a beat too long before she shoved the last book into its home, then grabbed the nearest teetering stack to begin the task all over again.
Those hips wrapped a leash around my neck and yanked me behind. I fumbled for a change of topic. Something casual and comforting. Something to ease the tension I saw in the tight lines around her mouth. Something to draw out that smile I remembered from lazy summer days.
Osen would have known exactly what to say. My brother always knew the right words, the perfect balance between strength and diplomacy that made him a natural leader. Even his mate bond with Miranda had started rocky as hell, but they’d fought through dark magic and near-death to find their way.
Meanwhile, here I stood, my fated mate right in front of me, and I couldn’t string two thoughts together.
Carissa’s scent of cinnamon and vanilla filled my lungs with every breath, making it hard to focus on anything but the way she moved through the familiar space. Like she belonged here. Like she’d never left.
“So, taking over Mags’s legacy?” I grabbed a stack of paperbacks before she could stretch for them.
“Something like that.” She snatched the books and reshelved them with military precision. “Right now, I just need to get things in order.”
The vague answer stung, though it shouldn’t have surprised me. Osen said Miranda hadn’t felt the same immediate connection to him, either. But this was my mate. Did she not feel it, not even a little? The pull of fate drawing us together?
A strand of dark hair escaped her bun, curling against her neck. I tracked its fall, imagining how it would feel wrapped around my fingers. How she’d look with all that dark silk spilling free, wild and unbound.
“Well, if you need a break from organizing, you should come by One Hop Stop later,” I offered. “First round’s on me.”
“Vanin’s place?” Molly’s voice drifted down from the second floor. “Ooh, Vanin has arms . Like, I know all orcs have arms, but his are just...” She made an unintelligible noise.
I filed away that interested tone for later teasing. “Osen just finished a special batch to celebrate his mate. Dark ale aged in cedar barrels to celebrate his mate. It’s got this hint of?—”
“Look, Torain.” Carissa whirled on me, then took a step back to meet my eyes easier. “It’s been nice to see you again, but I really don’t have time to chat or get a drink. I have an author reading in—” She checked her watch and paled. “Three hours. With no available staff, no setup, and apparently no—” Her voice cracked. “No actual plan beyond hopes and dreams.”
The scent of her stress hit me like a punch—sharp cinnamon tinged with burnt sugar. Just like those days she’d show up at the store with red eyes, clutching a plate of cookies she’d baked alongside Mags as a distraction from her parents’ messy divorce. Back then, all I could do was pretend not to notice and try to make her laugh.
But now...
“Let me help.” The words spilled out before I could even think them into existence. My mate was hurting. She shouldn’t smell of anxiety and overwhelm, and everything in me needed to fix it. “Moving furniture, setup, whatever you need. These arms are good for more than just carving.”
“That’s… kind of you.” Her gaze caught on my forearms before snapping away. “But I couldn’t impose.”
“Not an imposition.” I kept my voice gentle, fighting every instinct screaming at me to gather her close and soothe away the tension in her shoulders. “Consider it repayment for all those cookies you used to share.”
Her lips twitched. “You remember that?”
“Best snickerdoodles I’ve ever had.” I grinned. “I’ve only been nursing a craving for nearly two decades.”
The almost-smile won its battle, curving her lips for just a moment before she caught herself. My heart stumbled at the sight. Gods, but she was beautiful when she let those walls crack.
“I suppose I could part with my recipe as payment.” She crossed her arms, but the gesture lacked heat. “If you’re determined to help, we need to clear all the boxes from the wine bar, set up chairs, and figure out where Jana stashed the author’s books. Assuming we even have any.”
I’d barely shifted the first couch when the bell above the door dinged. I caught the scent before I turned—expensive cologne barely masking natural sleaze.
“Ah, you must be the new owner.” Tate’s smile didn’t reach his eyes as he approached Carissa. “I’ve been hoping to catch you. Tate Gerrard, Silvermist Development Group.”
My hands clenched as he extended one manicured palm. I knew that predatory asshole. I’d seen enough of Tate’s “urban renewal” projects—buying up local businesses, gutting their character, and flipping them for maximum profit.
Carissa’s shoulders tensed, but her handshake was pure corporate precision. “Carissa Morton. I’m afraid I’m rather busy at the moment, Mr. Gerrard.”
“Please, call me Tate. And this won’t take but a moment.” He produced a business card like a magic trick. “Let me start by offering my condolences. Margaret was a pillar of this community and had my utmost respect.”
Which was why he used her given name instead of the name everyone knew her as, surely. I bit back a growl of annoyance.
The slime passed an assessing look over the store, and Carissa stiffened further. “I imagine inheriting all this responsibility must feel like a monumental task laid upon you. I’d like to make an offer that would take that burden off your shoulders.”
“I appreciate your interest.” Carissa accepted his card with two fingers, like touching it might contaminate her. “However, as I said, I’m quite busy preparing for an event. Perhaps we could schedule a meeting for another time?”
“Of course, of course.” Tate’s smile widened. “I’ll have my assistant send over some preliminary numbers. Just to get the conversation started.”
He’d barely slithered out the door before I rounded on Carissa. “Tell me you’re not actually considering selling to that snake.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” She straightened a chair with sharp movements.
“He’s been trying to buy up half of downtown.” I shoved aside the final box blocking the bar and stalked after her. “The coffee shop across the street? They refused to sell last month. Suddenly their pipes keep bursting. Health department shows up weekly.”
“I’m quite capable of handling my own business dealings.” Her tone could have frozen hell. “I don’t need protection from basic inquiries.”
“This isn’t Seattle.” The words came out harsher than intended, tinged with desperation. The mate bond screamed to make her understand. “Tate doesn’t play by corporate rules. He’ll promise whatever it takes to get what he wants, then?—”
“By the gods’ hairy balls, there you are!” Zral’s voice boomed through the store. “I’ve been waiting a half hour with deliveries. Did you forget how to tell time again?”
Shit. The furniture orders. I’d completely forgotten about helping with deliveries today.
“Sorry, I got...” My eyes darted to Carissa, who watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. “...distracted.”
“You’re always distracted.” Zral rolled his eyes. “Just get your ass moving. We’re already behind schedule.”
The dismissal in Carissa’s expression hurt worse than Zral’s words. That careful mask of professional distance had gained an edge of... disappointment?
“I can come back later,” I offered quickly. “Help with the event setup or?—”
“We’ll see.” Her tone suggested exactly how much weight my word carried now. She turned away, that loose strand of hair a final taunt. “Molly, start moving those chairs. We have work to do.”
The mate bond twisted as I followed Zral out. She thought I was unreliable. Flaky. Just like everyone else did. And maybe they were right.
After all, Osen would never have forgotten a commitment. Osen had his shit together.
I cast one last look through the window. Carissa had already turned away, another strand of hair falling free from that precise bun, with no use for someone who couldn’t even keep track of time.
Mate bonds, it turned out, didn’t come with instruction manuals.