15. Rakk
RAKK
The soul-binding is destroying me from the inside out.
Every time I'm forced to grab Serah in public—every harsh grip on her arm, every rough handling that looks like dominance—the pain transfers to my body the moment I'm alone.
The binding ensures she feels nothing. Takes nothing she doesn't choose.
But the physical force I use? The potential damage?
All of it flows directly into me instead.
My left shoulder throbs constantly from when I yanked her away from the central fire three days ago.
Purple bruises bloom across my ribs from yesterday's incident when I pulled her too hard getting her away from gossiping females.
My right wrist aches with deep bone-pain from this morning when I had to drag her through the plaza.
None of it shows on her skin. All of it marks mine beneath the armor and training wraps I never remove anymore.
But the physical pain is nothing compared to watching her flinch away from me. Seeing the hurt and betrayal in those amber-hazel eyes every time I'm forced to play this role. The way she looks at me now—like I'm exactly what she always feared orcs were.
I'm losing her. Already lost her, maybe. And I can't even explain why without revealing magic that would make my father strip my inheritance and put the clan in danger.
The training yard dust coats my throat. I force myself through another set of drills, though my body screams protest with every movement. Kaelen watches from across the sparring circle with concern etched into his features.
"You're favoring your left side."
"I'm fine."
"You look like death warmed over."
I pivot into a defensive stance that sends fresh agony through my shoulder. "Rough night."
"Every night is rough lately." He lowers his practice blade. "Talk to me."
What would I even say? That I'm bleeding myself dry trying to protect my mate while simultaneously driving her further away? That every breath feels like inhaling broken glass because I can feel her misery through the bond and there's nothing I can do about it?
"There's nothing to talk about." I attack with enough force to make him stumble back. "The mating is difficult. She'll adjust."
"Will she?" Kaelen blocks my next strike. "Or will you just keep brutalizing her until she breaks?"
The word hits like a physical blow. "I'm not—"
"Everyone sees it, Rakk." His voice drops lower. Dangerous. "The way you handle her. How rough you are. I know things are strained, but that's no excuse to treat her like—"
"You don't understand." Desperation claws up my throat.
"Then make me understand why my best friend who was falling in love with a human woman only weeks ago is now manhandling her like she's livestock."
Because if I don't, someone else will do worse.
Because the clan expects dominance and I'm walking a razor's edge between protecting her and losing everything.
Because I bound myself to her in ways no one has done in a thousand years and now I'm paying the price in blood and broken bones while she thinks I'm a monster.
I can't say any of it.
"We're done here." I sheathe my blade and turn away.
His hand catches my arm—lands directly on the bruise from yesterday. I barely suppress the flinch but can't completely hide the wince.
Kaelen's grip tightens. "What was that?"
"Nothing. Training injury."
He yanks my arm closer, pushing up the leather bracer I wrapped carefully this morning. Purple-black bruising spreads across my forearm in the unmistakable pattern of finger marks. Not from combat. From gripping too hard.
From gripping Serah too hard yesterday when I pulled her away from the mess hall.
Understanding floods his expression. Then confusion. "Why do you have bruises shaped like your own hand?"
I jerk away. "It's complicated."
"Explain it."
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
Both. Neither. I don't have words for this nightmare I'm living.
My father summons me that afternoon. His dwelling sits at the highest point of the settlement, overlooking everything with the same authority he wields over the clan. I drag myself up the canyon path, every step requiring conscious effort not to limp.
Dad looks satisfied when I enter. That should worry me.
"Sit."
I lower myself onto the bench across from him, keeping my movements controlled despite how my ribs protest.
"The clan is settling after the mating ceremony chaos." He pours two cups of zhisk. "Good. I was concerned about your choice, but you've handled the human well. Establishing dominance early was wise."
My stomach turns. If he only knew what that "dominance" actually costs.
"She's adjusting," I manage.
"Adjust her faster." He slides one cup toward me. "It's time to focus on your future as Chieftain. Stop wasting energy on a difficult mate and start preparing for leadership. The Stone Fang alliance is damaged but not destroyed. We'll need to negotiate carefully over the next season."
I stare into the amber liquid. "Understood."
"And Rakk?" His obsidian eyes bore into me. "Get her pregnant. Soon. The clan needs to see proof of the union's strength. Proof that human mates can produce viable heirs. Your brother's birth and subsequent... difficulties make this even more important."
The mention of Tarak—my younger brother who died in infancy—makes something tighten in my chest. Dad rarely speaks of him. The grief runs too deep, carved into his bones from losing both his mate and their second son within months of each other.
"I'll work on it."
"Don't work on it. Do it." He drinks deeply. "And for the gods' sakes, stop letting her publicly disagree with you. The other warriors are starting to question whether you can control your own home. How will you control a clan?"
How will I control anything when I'm falling apart?
"It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't." He dismisses me with a wave. "You chose this path, Rakk. Now walk it properly."
I return to my dwelling as evening settles over the canyon. Serah is in her room—I can hear the soft rustle of movement through the closed door. She emerges briefly to get water, sees me sitting by the hearth, and retreats without a word.
This is my life now. Sharing space with someone who can barely stand to look at me.
I want to knock on her door. Want to beg forgiveness on my knees until my voice breaks. Want to tell her I love her, that every harsh touch destroys me more than it could ever hurt her, that I'd carve out my own heart if it meant erasing the pain I've caused.
But I can't. Not while the clan watches. Not while warriors question my authority. Not while my father demands results and pregnancy and proof that I can lead.
Not while revealing the truth could strip away everything I'm trying to protect.
So I sit alone by the fire and feel the bruises throb beneath my armor. Feel the ache in my ribs with every breath. Feel the soul-binding pulse like a living thing, tying me to her even as she slips further away.
The zhisk bottle sits on the table. I drink straight from it, welcoming the burn down my throat. Anything to dull the edges of this particular torture.
Tomorrow I'll have to perform again. Grab her arm or her wrist or her shoulder and watch her flinch. Demonstrate control I don't feel while pain blooms across my body in payment.
Tomorrow I'll pretend everything is fine while slowly bleeding out from wounds no one can see.
Tomorrow I'll lose another piece of her while my father demands I breed her and my best friend looks at me with growing disgust and the entire clan expects me to break her completely.
I drain the bottle.
Three days later, everything falls apart.
Serah is arguing with me in the plaza—something about being ordered to help prepare hides when she'd rather work in the healing chambers. It's a small disagreement. Barely worth mentioning under normal circumstances.
But there are at least forty clan members within hearing distance. And she's openly contradicting me. Again.
"I said you'll work where I tell you to work." I keep my voice hard. Commanding.
"And I'm telling you I'm more useful with Zurkar than scraping fat off animal skins."
Whispers ripple through the watching crowd. I can feel their judgment. Their expectations. The weight of every single eye evaluating whether the Chieftain's son can maintain authority over his own mate.
"Serah." Warning colors my tone. "This isn't up for discussion."
"Everything about my life seems to be decided without discussion."
The bitterness in her voice cuts deeper than any blade. But I can't address it here. Can't explain or apologize or do anything except what the clan demands.
I reach for her arm. Grip firmly—not painfully, but with clear intent. "We're going home."
She jerks back. Hard. "Don't—"
I catch her wrist instead, my hand closing around delicate bones. The position requires more pressure to maintain hold. More force to keep her from pulling away while everyone watches.
Pain explodes through my own wrist immediately—the binding activating, transferring the force I'm using straight into my body. I feel bones grind. Feel something crack.
But I can't let go. Can't show weakness in front of half the clan.
I drag her toward the dwelling path, maintaining the harsh grip despite how my wrist screams protest. She's not actually being hurt—the binding ensures that. But it looks brutal. Looks like exactly the kind of dominance display everyone expects from an orc controlling his difficult mate.
Behind us, I hear approval in the watching warriors' voices. Satisfaction that I'm finally handling this properly.
I also hear Kaelen's sharp intake of breath.
We're barely out of the plaza when I have to release her. My wrist won't support the grip anymore. Something is definitely broken.
Serah stumbles away from me, breathing hard. She stares at where I held her, already checking for bruises that won't be there. Then her eyes lift to mine.
"Are you satisfied?" Her voice shakes. "Did that prove whatever you needed to prove?"