Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Kesha
Look, I don’t think I can properly convey what it’s like to pack up from a wedding, focus on getting your sugared-up ten-year-old into the car—“Where is your tie? No, don’t worry about it, it’s time for bed, go find your shoes!
”—and trying to settle you both into a new bedroom all while knowing it was your wedding and your new home.
I didn’t have time for a freak-out, but I was most definitely due one.
Holy crap, I was married.
I was married to Korrad, and we’d just gotten a quick tour of our new home, and this bedroom was our new space, and I was married.
The hyperventilation was the first sign of the impending freak-out, the thinking in italics was the second sign.
But any parent knows that it’s rare to have the time you need to freak out. Nope, you’ve gotta keep your game face on and be strong and certain and positive, even when—“Milo, just spit the toothpaste in the sink, please!”
It was well past his bedtime when I finally finished cleaning the hall bathroom we’d share with Jay and wrestled Milo into the top bunk, but he was still chattering.
“Do you like this room, Mom? I wish it was painted green and purple, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh,” I murmured absent-mindedly as I finished pulling out his clothes for tomorrow. I was going to have to organize our stuff in the drawers Korrad had cleaned out for us.
“Jay said it was just a guest room—he said his Uncle Brak sometimes stayed over—but then it was gonna be my room and they were gonna paint it—”
“Going to be,” I corrected automatically.
“But then they decided it should probably be your room, and I’m just going to stay until Jay and I are ready to share a room and then we’re going to take these bunk beds and move them into his room, and you can have a room all to yourself, and I don’t think you’d want it to be green and purple because you like—”
“Breathe, honeybear.” I cut him off sternly, deciding the unpacking needed to wait. I crossed the room, pushed myself up on my toes, and kissed his elbow, the only part I could reach. “You need to sleep.”
“I’m not—” He yawned hugely. “Tired.”
I grinned as I turned off the light. “Well, I am. Go to sleep, Milo. We have tomorrow to learn about our new home.”
“You gonna say goodnight to Mr. Korrad?” came the sleepy-sounding question in the darkness. “I saw you kiss him.”
“I’m not going to give him a goodnight kiss, but I guess…”
Since Milo was already half-asleep, I slipped out before I could think of what I would say to him anyhow. Did I want to give Korrad a goodnight kiss?
Well, I wasn’t against it. Sure, my body had responded to that kiss at the altar, and the way he’d held me—Surely he was just trying to be polite—at our wedding reception. But I wasn’t going to go looking for something that wasn’t there.
The way he’d spoken about his dead Mate, Jay’s mom…
my heart had broken for him. The connection he described, the Mate Bond…
I couldn’t imagine having that and then losing it.
It was bad enough when divorce or assholery or death ended a human relationship; it must be impossible to bear when you know that was your only chance at happiness.
“Well,” I breathed, rolling my neck to try to relax. “You’re married to him now.”
Right.
Korrad wasn’t ever going to get back the connection he’d had with his Mate, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be happy. He was a good guy, a noble, honorable one, and I was now his wife. There was no reason we couldn’t be partners and make this marriage successful and happy.
He might not ever love me the way he’d loved Sharra, but I could still make him happy.
Mating Bonds weren’t necessary for that—some humans managed it.
Not me, obviously, but I’d spent a decade editing manuscripts about finding love. Maybe I could check out some self-help books from the library.
How to Make Your Husband Happy Without Blowjobs, Since He Says This is Strictly A Marriage of Convenience 101
Oh, So You Married a Stranger? How to Make it Work, Volumes 1-4
What the Shit Were You Thinking? How to Avoid Jumping Into Bed With Your New Husband, You Daft Idiot.
Surely there was a list somewhere.
Because from everything I’d learned, Korrad deserved happiness in a way no other male I’d met had.
He was kind and generous and noble, and I still had no idea what he got out of this marriage, other than burden and headache.
I was beyond worried about this being one-sided, but I couldn’t pass up what he was offering.
So I just had to do my best to not be a burden or a headache.
And that started with being polite.
I took a deep breath and went to find my new husband.
He was in a room in the back of the house, what might have been intended as a sunroom, but now was filled with…music. Or the possibility of music.
The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, and the air itself seemed to hum with…latent creativity? Floor-to-ceiling windows—black mirrors now in the night—promised a stunning view come morning.
But it was the contents that stole my breath. In one corner, a sleek drum kit stood sentinel, cymbals gleaming. I’ll have to keep Milo away from there, or he’d do some damage. Several guitars rested on stands like sleeping beauties, and a keyboard occupied the opposite corner.
This wasn’t just a room; it was a sanctuary.
And in the center of it, on a worn leather ottoman in front of a cozy chair, sat Korrad.
A guitar was cradled in his lap, those huge, capable hands moving with a surprising delicacy over the strings.
He wasn’t playing a song, just a progression of chords—a melancholy, wandering melody that filled the quiet space.
His head was tipped back, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the dark glass, the lines of his face softened in the lamplight.
He looked…peaceful. And incredibly talented. The sound was rich and warm, and for a moment, I just stood in the doorway, mesmerized. This was a side of him I hadn’t imagined—the artist, the quiet creator.
Then he stiffened. The music stopped mid-chord, and his shoulders went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head, those dark eyes finding me in the shadow of the hall.
Right. Orc senses.
Had he heard my breathing? My heartbeat. Had he smelled me? My lotion mingling with wedding-day sweat and panic? A flush crept up my neck.
He didn’t speak, just held my gaze for a taut second.
Then, deliberately, he exhaled, and his fingers found the strings again. The chords resumed, slower this time, as if he were using the rhythm to steady his own pulse. Or maybe mine.
I cleared my throat, forcing a grin that felt wobbly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt the concert.”
“You’re not.” His voice was a low rumble, harmonizing with the final chord he strummed. He let it fade into silence before placing the guitar carefully on a stand, his attention on the instrument. “Milo settled?”
“Out like a light. Sugar crash is a powerful thing.” I hovered in the doorway, feeling like an intruder in this personal space. “This room is amazing. Do you play all of these?”
“A bit.” He shrugged, a modest gesture that didn’t match the obvious evidence of dedicated practice. “Jay likes listening but doesn’t have a lot of interest in learning. So I just come in here to mess around when my head’s full. It…helps.”
I understood helps. And I understood having a full head.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and I meant the room, the instruments, the few moments of melody I’d heard.
Korrad nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands—the claws on the ends of his fingers. “Did you need something?” he asked without looking up.
A manual. A time machine. A Xanax. A hell of an orgasm. A cigarette?
Why did my fingers itch to reach for him?
“I just… I’m going to head to bed. Long day. Wanted to check if you needed anything from me first?” The question came out more formal than I intended, like a hotel concierge, and a full pitch higher than usual.
He stood, and the room suddenly felt smaller. “I was going to ask you the same thing. This is your home now too, Kesha. Please, take whatever you need. Food, space, quiet… it’s yours.”
There it was again, that staggering generosity that left me feeling unbalanced.
“That’s the thing,” I blurted out, the words tripping over my fatigue, my panic making them swirl as my gesture tried to encompass everything.
“You keep giving. The room, the school, the healthcare, this whole… life.” My wide-eyed gaze was locked on his chest, as if I couldn’t meet his eyes.
“And I just show up with a car full of mismatched towels and a kid who asks a million questions. I’m not… ”
My words slowed as my burst of energy petered out, and I snuck a quick glance up at his impassive expression, then turned away. Taking a deep breath, I finished my plaintive worry to what looked like a bass guitar, which—understandably, it being made of wood and lacquer, didn’t judge me.
“I just don’t know how to give back in equal measure,” I whispered. “It feels one-sided.”
He took a step closer, then stopped, as if remembering an invisible line between us.
“Marriage is not a transaction, Kesha,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.
“You gave me a son who makes my son happier than I’ve ever seen him.
You’re giving him a brother. That’s…” He shook his head, searching for the word.
“Priceless. So stop keeping score. Just…be here.”
Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, stupid and sudden. I blinked them away fiercely. “Okay,” I whispered to the stringed instrument. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Get some sleep, Kesha.”
I nodded, already backing into the hallway. “You too. Goodnight, Korrad.”
“Goodnight.”
I fled to the bedroom, closing the door softly behind me. The house was quiet, but the echo of those guitar chords seemed to have woven themselves into the silence, a gentle undercurrent beneath the unfamiliar creaks and sighs of the new building.