Chapter 4
The journey to Henrik’s homestead wasn’t an easy one. Pavilion, the closest town to his land, was at least a week’s journey during fine weather, but they weren’t favored with that. And of course, the war raged on.
Their first major hurdle was getting safely away from the front line.
The weeks of blizzards had done wonders to quiet the worst of the fighting near their sugar factory, but that didn’t mean it was safe.
The border between the Packlands and the Orclind was fuzzy at best and littered with minefields at worst.
To make things more perilous, shifters had subterfuge on their side. They could change into animals at will, which allowed many of them to lay in wait for enemies. Any hawk could be a scout, and behind any corner a battalion.
Unfortunately, that meant the safest course of action was to go through the wilderness, which was no easy thing in the middle of January.
They did their best to prepare. The abandoned shells of homes were scavenged for anything useful, and Henrik fashioned her a pack out of a sack that once held sugar beets.
She was in charge of the blankets — or nesting materials, as he called them — while he shouldered the cooking supplies, wood, and makeshift tent he’d rigged up with an old tarpaulin and whittled posts.
He was a remarkable man, her orc. Mabel was as awed by his resourcefulness as she was by his restraint.
Despite taking the kohl and her surprise bonding, he continued to be the perfect gentleman. Or near-perfect, anyway. The man did have an unbecoming obsession with patting her backside.
They’d shared a bed ever since she dragged his unconscious body into it, but he hadn’t taken the opportunity most men would’ve.
The soldiers she knew were desperate for female company, and the few times her shifters had stumbled their way into a matebond, desire ran hotter than a furnace.
She’d been under the impression that orcs were similar, but Henrik never slipped his hands inside her combinations or did more than bestow dizzying kisses.
In some ways it was a relief. It took time for her to come to grips with what he asked of her, and now what her magic had decided for her.
She was attracted to him, to be sure, and she was a healer.
She knew the mechanics of the intimate act.
There was nothing to fear about it other than, perhaps, the compatibility of their sizes.
But she was nervous all the same. Perhaps that was why he restrained himself.
Her bondmate was a perceptive man. Sometimes it felt like he spent all his time watching her, learning every expression and variation of her voice. There was no way he hadn’t seen her blush or look away quickly when he stripped for bed.
And she could allow that perhaps he was focused on more important things than sex.
After the elation of her bonding died down, Henrik grew intensely fixated on getting them back to his homestead. The man hardly slept. He worked furiously, gathering supplies, crafting what they needed, and trying to outfit her with every bit of clothing he could find.
When they set off, the soft, charming orc she’d come to know fell away to reveal the hardened soldier he’d been forged into.
“You must follow every order I give you,” he firmly instructed her as he adjusted the high collar of his oilskin jacket around her face. His expression, normally cheerful, had settled into deep lines of determination and worry.
But he wasn’t the only one who’d been fighting too long. Mabel knew how to follow orders. Nodding, she replied, “Understood.”
“And if you get tired or too sore, speak up. We’ll be in a far worse position if you injure yourself than if we stop for a break.”
“I’ve marched before,” she explained, shifting a little under the bulk of the layers he’d piled onto her. “I can keep up.”
“Even so.” Henrik bent to give her a gentle kiss. A rush of tingles spread from her head to her toes when the tip of his tongue swept across the seam of her lips. Pulling back with a strained look, he muttered, “If it would get us to our nest faster, I would carry you.”
“You’re awfully focused on nests,” she observed, knowing her cheeks were bright red.
The powerful muscles that lined Henrik’s jaw flexed. Skimming his palm down one side of her head, he sighed, “You have no idea.”
She didn’t understand what he meant by that until many nights later, when they retired to their tent. A light snow fell outside, forcing them into the great hardship of cuddling close beneath their blankets to conserve warmth.
They were both fully dressed, exhausted, and a little filthy from the journey, so it wasn’t exactly the time for romance. But Mabel couldn’t take it anymore.
Pressed against his chest, she couldn’t see his face when she demanded, “Do you not desire me?”
Henrik tensed. “What?”
“You haven’t… I mean, I know what mates do,” she said, painfully glad he couldn’t see her expression. “And I’m your mate. You’re a soldier who hasn’t… known a woman in a while, presumably. But you haven’t touched me. Do you not desire m—”
“Have you lost your mind?” Henrik’s growl shook the very air beneath their blankets.
Before she could react, he’d flipped her on her back. The blankets slid down over his shoulders, letting in a waft of frigid air as he loomed over her, a furious scowl on his face.
“Listen to me. No, better yet—” He grabbed her hand and dragged it down his front, to the closure of his trousers.
“Do you feel me, Mabel?” he rumbled, pressing her hand into the hard bulge beneath the layers of wool and undergarments he wore.
Her face flamed. A heavy sort of feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. It was warm and rich and exhilarating.
It was desire in its purest, most intoxicating form.
“I…” Mabel swallowed hard. “I feel you.”
Ignoring her soft sound of protest, he pulled her hand away and set it back on their sleeping mat. Henrik lowered his head to press his lips to the pounding pulse below her jaw. She gasped at that soft touch, the spark of her own magic singing in her veins.
Being bonded was an odd, remarkable sort of thing. She’d never given it much thought, being too young to consider it and then too wrapped up in death to see it in her future. But her body had chosen for her, and what a man it picked.
Henrik, who crossed a battlefield for her. Henrik, who believed his mission was to help her help others. Henrik, who wanted nothing more than to see her thrive.
It was overwhelming at first, and a part of her still struggled to come to grips with it, but after three weeks locked together, she knew him. And she liked him. She liked him very, very much.
Whispering into her skin, he told her, “I desire you, my blessing. By all the gods in the sky, I desire you more than I can take. But I’ve made a promise to myself that I won’t touch you until I can give you a proper nest.”
Thoroughly distracted by the way he kissed her neck, it took her moment to catch up.
Blinking rapidly, she gawked at the dark ceiling of their tent. “What? Why would you do that?”
“Because I will not take my mate for the first time on a floor, or in a tent, or anywhere except the home she is owed.” Henrik skimmed his lips over her jaw to murmur in her ear, “We will stay in the homestead to rest, eat, and fuck until we have our fill of it all.”
“Oh,” she squeaked, toes curling in her thick socks.
His lips curled into a smile against her skin. “And I’ll be sending in my declaration of matehood to the commander of the Iron Chain Forces. No one will drag me back to the fight when I have a mate in my nest.”
Filled with a strange mix of relief, disappointment, and desire, she wrapped her arms around his back. Chest tightening, she asked, “You won’t be arrested, will you? For desertion?”
“No,” he assured her. “Matehood is sacred. If they court-martialed every orc who ran off with a mate, they’d have a revolt on their hands.”
Searching his uncanny eyes, she dared to ask, “We’ll be safe?”
“Yes, my blessing,” he answered, touching his forehead to hers. “We will be safe. And then we will work.”
The homestead was of traditional orcish design, just as he’d explained it to her as they walked for days and days.
But even his vivid descriptions couldn’t prepare her for the loveliness of it.
Snow dusted a sprawling, sloping field and the round structure that made up the turf roof of the main house.
Walls of stone only about three feet tall stuck out from the earth, while the rest of the home was buried deep.
A short flight of stairs led to a heavy wood door, and a spindly iron chimney stuck out of the turf roof like a broken arm.
Tucked deep into orcish territory, it was miraculously unscarred by the war. To Mabel, the peace of it was almost painful to behold.
Henrik led her down the steps by the hand. He’d boarded up the door during his last mandatory leave period, so he pried them off with his massive, kohl-darkened hands before he unlocked the door with a heavy iron key.
Ushering her inside, he hurriedly explained, “I built this homestead, but when my parents pass, we’ll inherit their ranch in Colorado. It’s much larger and on a good trading road. I figure… well, when we have children, we can give one of them this place.”
Mabel stood silently as he pulled her sugar beet sack off her back and set it on the floor.
Her gaze roamed the lovingly decorated space, taking in the tapestries on the walls and the hand-carved furniture.
The air was slightly musty, but the temperature was startlingly comfortable.
It felt more like a home than anywhere she’d been in… years.
Henrik was all movement and nervous energy. He dropped his own pack before running to the iron stove in the middle of the round living room.