Chapter 5
five
ALIANA
Ifloated somewhere between consciousness and dreams, my body humming with lingering pleasure and the magical resonance of our bond. The weight of Rakthar’s arm across my waist should have felt oppressive, but instead anchored me to reality as aftershocks of pleasure rippled through me.
He murmured something in his native tongue, the words unintelligible but the sentiment clear in the way his massive hand stroked my hip with surprising gentleness.
“Can you stand?” he asked, his voice a rumble against my back.
I made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. “Can I stand? I’m not sure I remember what standing is. I think you’ve broken me. Congratulations, you’ve achieved what years of terrible gym classes could not.”
His chest vibrated with amusement against my spine. “I will take that as a no.”
Without waiting for me to prove myself wrong, which, let’s be honest, I absolutely would have tried and failed spectacularly, he scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing.
Which was objectively false, because I definitely weighed something, but apparently orc strength operated on different physics than the rest of us.
“I will care for you now,” he declared, carrying me toward an adjoining chamber I hadn’t noticed before. Probably because I’d been too busy having my entire worldview rearranged along with my internal organs.
Steam billowed from an enormous stone tub that looked like it had been carved directly from the mountain itself. The water’s surface shimmered with iridescent oils that caught the light like liquid opals, creating patterns that seemed almost alive.
The scent hit me next. Wild mountain herbs, something musky and primal that made my hindbrain sit up and pay attention, and beneath it all, a hint of sweetness that made my nose tingle.
“My clan’s bonding oils,” Rakthar explained, noting my expression, which was probably somewhere between fascinated and mildly concerned. “Passed through generations. They will soothe your body and strengthen our connection.”
“Is this going to turn me into an orc?” I asked, only half-joking. “Because I feel like that’s something I should know before I get in. I have a very specific skincare routine.”
His laugh rumbled through his chest. “You will remain perfectly yourself, little mate. Though perhaps more relaxed.”
He lowered me into the water with a care that seemed incongruous with his massive frame and his earlier enthusiasm for rearranging my spine.
The moment the oils touched my skin, I gasped.
Heat bloomed everywhere the water touched, not burning but intensely warm, as if my skin had been awakened to new sensations.
It felt like every nerve ending was being gently massaged by tiny, very skilled hands.
“Oh,” I breathed, watching the oils swirl around my breasts, clinging to my dark brown skin in delicate patterns that seemed to shimmer and shift. “That’s okay, that’s actually incredible. I take back every sarcastic comment I was about to make.”
Rakthar’s mouth curved in satisfaction as he knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle and decorated with scars.
“The oils recognize you as mine now.” He dipped his hand into the water, watching the patterns shift around his fingers.
“They will mark you in ways only I can see.”
I should have found that possessive statement alarming.
Should have launched into a lecture about autonomy and how I wasn’t property to be marked.
But my body was too thoroughly blissed out to mount a proper feminist argument, and I was filing it away for later, when I had the cognitive function to be appropriately outraged.
The water lapped at my sensitized skin as Rakthar dipped a cloth into the tub and began to wash me, starting with my shoulders. His touch wasn’t sexual now, but reverent, like I was something precious that might break if handled roughly. Which, given recent events, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.
The cloth slid across my collarbones, down between my breasts, tracing patterns that made my skin tingle. He washed every inch of me, murmuring words in his language that sounded like praise, or poetry, or possibly a recipe for stew—I had no idea, but the tone made my chest feel tight and warm.
When the cloth dipped between my legs, I tensed, still tender from our coupling. The soreness was a pleasant ache, but an ache nonetheless.
“Relax,” he said, gentler than I would have thought possible from someone who looked like he could bench-press a car. “I know where you ache. The oils will heal.”
He was right. The sting melted away almost immediately, replaced by a pleasant tingling sensation that spread through my core like warmth from good whiskey.
By the time he helped me from the bath, my body felt renewed, humming with energy rather than exhaustion.
I felt like I could run a marathon. Or at least walk to the kitchen without my legs giving out, which was a significant improvement.
Rakthar wrapped me in a soft cloth that was probably worth more than my entire wardrobe back at the Sanctuary, dabbing the moisture from my skin rather than rubbing. His massive hands moved with deliberate precision, treating me like something precious. Like art. Like I mattered.
No one had ever touched me with such focused attention before.
It was disarming, this tenderness from a creature who could crush me without effort.
My throat felt tight, and I blinked rapidly, refusing to cry over basic aftercare.
I had standards. Low standards, apparently, but standards nonetheless.
“Sit,” he directed, guiding me to a low stool that had definitely been designed with someone much shorter than him in mind. From a pouch at his waist, he withdrew a carved comb that looked ancient, the handle worn smooth from generations of use. “I will dress your hair properly now.”
“You don’t have to—” I started, because this felt like too much, too intimate, too everything.
“I do.” His tone brooked no argument, and honestly, I was too curious to protest further. “You are my mate. Your appearance reflects on me, and mine on you. This is how we honor each other.”
I fell silent, surprised by the pleasure that unfurled in my chest as he began to comb through my damp curls.
I’d expected him to struggle, most people did.
But his fingers worked deftly, separating strands with a gentleness that suggested experience, beginning an intricate pattern of braids at my temple.
“These are warrior’s knots,” he explained, his breath warm against my ear as he worked, sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with being cold. “In my clan, only the most honored wear this pattern. It signifies strength and protection.”
“I’m not a warrior,” I said softly, watching in the mirror as the braids took shape. They were beautiful, intricate, nothing like the simple styles I usually managed. “I’m just me. I work in data analysis. I can’t even open jars without using one of those grippy things.”
His hands paused. “You survived the matching system. You faced the ceremony despite your fear. You took me into your body without hesitation.” He resumed braiding, his fingers surprisingly nimble for their size.
“You are a warrior in ways that matter, Aliana. Strength is not only measured in battle.”
Something warm and dangerous unfurled in my chest at his words.
Not lust this time, though there was definitely some of that lurking around the edges.
This was something more complicated, more terrifying.
Something that felt dangerously close to affection, to trust, to all those things I’d told myself I wouldn’t feel for an arranged match.
As he finished the last braid, securing it with a small carved bead that was warm to the touch, I gathered my courage.
“Why did you really fight for me?” I asked, turning to face him, searching those golden eyes for answers. “At the matching. When there was the challenge. Why did you insist it be you?”
Rakthar’s expression grew serious, the ridges above his eyes drawing together in a way that made him look older, wearier. He cupped my face in one massive palm, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that made my breath catch.
“Because I saw your file,” he said. “And I wanted you safe.”
“My file?” I repeated. “You mean my compatibility profile?”
“Your compatibility tests. Your history.” His eyes, a startling amber in the dim light, held mine.
“The match that was made for you, I saw it, and I knew it was wrong. That Urran was wrong for you.” He paused, and something moved across his face.
“There are things about his clan, about that match, that you deserve to know. But not tonight.” His thumb traced my cheekbone again, deliberate, final.
“Tonight is ours. I will not let what is rotten in their system reach into what we’ve built here. ”
I searched his face. The door was closed. Whatever he knew, whatever he’d seen in that file that had made him invoke ancient treaty rights and fight a man he didn’t know, he was keeping it one more night.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Part of me wanted to push, to demand the full accounting right now.
But I was also aware that I was sitting in a magical bath, wearing warrior’s braids, with a bond mark glowing softly on my wrist—and that I was more exhausted and more settled than I had been in years.
Whatever was rotten could be rotten tomorrow.
“Okay,” I said. “Not tonight.”
He exhaled, almost imperceptibly. “I will tell you everything. I promise you that.”
“I know,” I said, and was mildly surprised to find I meant it.
He rose, moving about the room with quiet purpose, arranging food that had been delivered while we bathed, pouring fragrant tea into carved cups that looked hand-made. I watched him from my stool, still in my wrapping cloth, the warrior’s braids cooling against my temples.
His movements were efficient, nothing wasted. The scars that crisscrossed his back told stories of battles survived, of pain endured and walked away from. The gentleness of his hands as he pressed a cup into mine spoke of restraint.
I wondered how long he had been making that choice.
“In my clan,” he said, settling beside me, close but not touching, “the bonding period is sacred. Three days where nothing is asked of the new pair except to learn one another.” His eyes met mine. “To build trust before testing its strength.”
“Is that what this is?” I gestured between us. “Building trust?”
“Yes.” Simple. Direct. “I claimed your body because our bond demanded it. Because the magic required completion.” He took a sip of his tea, eyes never leaving mine. “But I will earn the rest of you more slowly. Your trust. Your affection. Your heart.” A pause. “If you choose to give them.”
The distinction surprised me. This separation between physical claiming and emotional connection. I’d assumed he would simply take whatever he wanted. This patience was unexpected. This respect for my autonomy, even after I was legally and magically bound to him, was disarming.
“And if I just want to read books and pretend this whole situation isn’t completely insane?” I asked.
His smile revealed the points of his tusks, dangerous and somehow thrilling.
“Then I will content myself with what you freely give. I will bring you books. I will give you space.” He reached out, tracing the warrior’s braid he’d woven into my hair with reverent fingers.
“But I think—” his gaze met mine, seeing too much, “—that you are curious about what lies between us. As am I.”
I couldn’t deny it.
He reached then into the pouch at his waist and withdrew a collection of small objects, each no larger than my thumb.
He set them on the low table between us with surprising care: some carved from wood, some from bone, some from materials I couldn’t identify.
Each one was detailed with symbols and patterns so fine they must have required hours of meticulous work.
“You carve,” I said, picking one up—a stylized creature mid-leap, its lines flowing so cleanly it seemed impossible it had been made by hands as large as his.
“Protection charms,” he said. “Each with its purpose. Safe travel. Clear thought.” He selected a small piece carved from milky green stone, its surface etched with interlocking lines that seemed to shift as I looked at them.
“Dreamless sleep.” He held it out and I took it; it sat warm and solid in my palm.
“And this—” another piece, this one worn smooth from handling, the symbols dense and layered, “—fertility.”
I set the fertility charm down with a precision that was only slightly too careful. “Right. We’re just going to leave that one there.”
“There is one I have not yet carved,” he said, as if I hadn’t spoken.
His eyes moved to my wrist, to the bond mark there.
“A protection charm made specifically for you. For what you are taking on, coming into my world.” He looked back up.
“I will make it before we leave the Sanctuary. You will have it before we go.”
Something about that—the matter-of-factness of it, the quiet promise—made my chest ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for. He hadn’t asked if I wanted it. He’d simply decided I would have it. And somehow, right now, in this room, that didn’t feel like the same thing as being claimed.
It felt like being taken care of.
“Okay,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended. “I’d like that.”
“Rest now,” he said, guiding me with a hand on my shoulder back toward the bed. “The bonding oils work through your system. When you wake, we will talk more. About the clan. About what comes next.” A beat. “About all of it.”
All of it. The door he’d held almost-but-not-quite shut.
Tomorrow, then.
As my eyes grew heavy, the exhaustion of the longest day of my life finally overtaking me, I watched him through half-closed lids.
He sat beside me, one massive hand resting lightly on my ankle, his expression thoughtful as he kept watch.
My last thought before sleep claimed me was that this arrangement was not what I’d feared.
That this monster—my monster now, apparently—had depths I had not yet explored.
And perhaps, just perhaps, I wanted to.