Chapter 4
four
ALIANA
Ididn’t sleep.
I lay in my acclimation suite for six hours, at least according to the glowing panel on the wall. The damned orc’s voice filled my mind, but it was one word that I kept fixating on.
Choose.
The suite was everything the Sanctuary brochure had promised: temperature-controlled, softly lit, equipped with a selection of calming teas I hadn’t touched and a pre-loaded tablet of orientation materials I’d read three times without absorbing a single word.
It was designed to make a person feel settled.
It was doing the opposite.
Sixty-two hours left, approximately. Give or take.
I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest.
The rational accounting went like this: I had entered the program as voluntarily as anyone could in these circumstances. I had consented to a match. A match had been made, by rules that allowed the Sanctuary system to function. Rules that every signatory species had agreed to honor.
The male waiting down the hall had followed every protocol in his own culture and tradition, stood in front of witnesses, and won a challenge. And in doing so, won a claim on me.
He had not lied to me. He had not threatened me. He had, somewhat absurdly, told me to take my time.
And then there was the other accounting. The one I kept trying not to do.
He had looked at me the way people rarely did, as though I were a problem worth the effort of solving, and said I did not expect you.
He had said he wanted a mate who would challenge him, fight with him, rule beside him, and he had said it the way people say things they’ve been waiting a long time to say out loud.
And he laughed.
Urran would not have said that. Urran would have given me a farmhouse would likely never wonder what I was thinking. His profile practically said he expected me not to say much of anything.
I thought about that for a long time.
Then I got up, splashed water on my face, and spent twenty minutes on my hair. I had standards, after all, and my curls are a gift from my mother and those before her. I put my mother’s bracelet on my wrist.
I sat back down on the edge of the bed.
The decision had been made somewhere in the dark, without fanfare, without a dramatic internal monologue to mark the moment. I recognized it the way you recognize the end of a storm: not because anything announces it, but because the air changes and you realize you’ve stopped bracing.
I would not wait sixty-two hours. No need to run down the clock. I had made a choice, and waiting around in a temperature-controlled room would not make me more certain than I already was.
I pressed the call panel by the door.
It took Counselor Patel four minutes to appear, which I interpreted as professionalism rather than the Sanctuary having predicted this exact moment and stationed her nearby. She took me in wordlessly, her face a careful mask that only broadcast serenity.
“I’d like to move forward with the ceremony,” I said. “Today. If that’s possible.”
Patel held my gaze for a moment. “You’re certain?”
“I’m choosing,” I said. “That’s what I have. My choice.”
She nodded once and reached for her tablet.
The Hall of Bonds stood silent and solemn as I entered, my heart hammering so hard I was pretty sure it was trying to escape through my ribcage. The brochure had called it “majestic.” That was accurate and also completely insufficient.
The ceiling arched three stories overhead, carved from pale stone shot through with veins of silver that caught the ceremonial light and held it, so the entire room seemed to glow from within.
Registry officials stood at their stations along the walls, their expressions professionally blank in the way of people who had witnessed too many of these moments to be moved by another one.
Despite everything, here I was, draped in ceremonial silks that whispered against my dark skin with each step. The fabric was actually nice, which shouldn’t be all that surprising considering the Sanctuary’s main purpose is to
Rakthar’s massive frame dominated the space ahead, his eyes tracking my every movement with an intensity that made my stomach do complicated gymnastics routines.
He had dressed for this. Not his Sanctuary-standard issue—his own things, brought in that chest that had appeared in his prep chamber: dark fabric that moved like armor but sat on his frame like ceremony, the silver bands on his tusks polished, his warrior’s knot tight.
He had prepared for this the way a person prepares for something that matters.
Something in my chest settled, almost involuntarily. I kept walking.
The Officiant cleared her throat, her expression unchanged from our first meeting. “The ceremony proceeds with mutual consent,” she announced, voice clipped and efficient.
I nodded, unable to find my voice as Rakthar’s gaze burned into me.
When he spoke, his voice was like gravel wrapped in velvet—rough but somehow smooth, and doing things to my insides that were definitely not appropriate for a formal ceremony.
“I, Rakthar of the Iron Fist Clan, take this human female as my bonded mate.” His massive hand reached for mine, engulfing it completely.
His palm was warm, calloused, and surprisingly gentle.
“I swear upon my ancestors to guard her life with my body and to protect her from all who would cause harm.” He paused, and something wicked gleamed in his golden eyes.
“And I vow to take her pleasure as seriously as her safety.”
Heat flooded through me so fast I was surprised I didn’t spontaneously combust right there in the Hall of Bonds. The Officiant didn’t even blink, merely nodding as if he’d recited tax code instead of vowing something I refuse to think about it right now.
“Do you consent to this bond?” the Officiant asked me, one eyebrow slightly raised as if every inappropriate thought scrolling through my brain was being broadcast across my forehead.
I had told myself I would feel the full weight of the moment. That I would take a breath, consider my words, say them with intention. Yet, my focus narrowed to Rakthar’s thumb as it moved across my knuckles and something settled into place so cleanly that the words came out without effort at all.
“I do,” I said. And then, louder, with a conviction that surprised even me: “I do.”
He exhaled and it was the quietest sound in that enormous room, and somehow the most significant.
The ceremony continued with ritual words in languages I didn’t understand, the press of a seal against parchment, the strange burning sensation as magical ink etched our bond into my skin in delicate patterns that wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet.
I watched, fascinated and slightly terrified, as matching marks appeared on Rakthar’s massive forearm. His eyes found mine across the space between us and stayed there, steady, as the magic settled into us both.
And then we were alone, escorted to our quarters within the Sanctuary, door locked behind us with a finality that made my heart race.
Rakthar stood motionless near the door, just watching me. The silence stretched between us, heavy with expectation and something else I couldn’t quite name.
“You tremble, little mate,” he finally said, his voice softer than I’d heard it before.
“I’m not afraid,” I lied, lifting my chin in what I hoped was a confident gesture and probably looked more like I was trying to see over a tall fence.
His mouth curved into a knowing smile that made my stomach flip. “Your fear smells sweet. But your arousal—” he inhaled deeply, and I wanted to die, “—that smells sweeter.”
“Okay, we really need to talk about the whole super-smell thing,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Because that’s, like, a lot. That’s an invasion of privacy. There should be laws.”
“There are no laws against breathing, little mate.”
“There should be laws against commenting on what you smell,” I countered. “That should definitely be illegal. I’m writing my congressman. Do we have congressmen here? We should have congressmen.”
He approached slowly, deliberately, and I was reminded of nature documentaries where the predator gave the prey time to appreciate its fate. Except I wasn’t sure I wanted to run. Which was probably a sign that my survival instincts had completely abandoned ship.
“You talk when you’re nervous,” he observed, stopping just in front of me. “I find it endearing.”
“Endearing,” I repeated flatly. “I’m so glad my anxiety is cute for you.”
His laugh was low and warm. “Everything about you is appealing to me, Aliana. Your fire. Your spirit. Your sharp tongue.” His hands moved to the ties of my ceremonial silks, and he paused, golden eyes meeting mine. “May I?”
That he asked when he clearly could have taken did something to my chest. Made it feel tight and warm and confusing.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He untied the silks with surprising dexterity for someone with hands the size of dinner plates, the fabric falling away to pool at my feet. I fought the urge to cover myself, standing there in nothing but my underwear. practical cotton because I’d been expecting boring Urran, not... this.
“So small,” he murmured, his rough palms skimming my shoulders, my collarbones, leaving trails of heat in their wake.
“So soft.” His hands moved lower, cupping my breasts with a gentleness that seemed impossible for someone his size.
His thumbs circled my nipples through the fabric of my bra, and I gasped.
“But not fragile. No, you’re not fragile at all. ”
“I’m—” I started, but forgot what I was going to say when he unhooked my bra with one hand. “How did you—? That took me three tries this morning…”
“I’m a warrior, little mate. I know my way around fastenings.” The smug satisfaction in his voice should have annoyed me. Instead, it made me laugh, some of the tension leaving my shoulders.
“Did you just make a joke? Are you capable of humor?”